THE 


POEMS, 

/ 

SACRED,  PASSIONATE,  AND  HUMOROUS, 

'   ;.  ,     ,  if  Afe  ,..'•'.,,:  .;, 
NATHANIEL  PARKER  WILLIS. 


FIFTH    EDITION. 


NEW  YORK  : 
PUBLISHED  BY  CLARK  &  AUSTIN, 

130  FULTON  STREET. 
1845. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  hi  the  y:>ar  1844,  by 

CZ  A.$K  *'  AUSTIN, . 
in  the  Clerk's  office  of  the  Distiict  Couu  of  the  Soaihem  DiEkrict  of  New  York 


Stereotyped  by 

RICHARD  C.  VALENTINE. 
45  Gold-street,  New  York. 

Printed  by 

HITCHCOCK  &  STAFFORD, 
New-Haven,  Ct. 


(iii) 


PREFACE. 


DURING  the  publication  of  a  cheap,  popular  edition 
of  the  following  poems  in  extra  numbers  of  a  peri 
odical,  it  was  thought  by  the  publishers  of  the  present 
volume,  that  there  would  be  a  demand  for  a  handsome 
library  edition.  The  author  was  induced  by  the  spon 
taneous  offers  of  his  present  publishers,  to  make  a 
more  careful  collection  of  his  Poems  than  had  yet 
appeared,  and  the  result  is  this  fairly  printed  volume. 

A  preface  to  these  Poems  would  be,  in  any  case,  but 
a  repetition.  The  author  has  suffered,  as  others  have 
done  before  him,  by  a  reputation  too  early  acquired. 
Many  of  the  poems  which  follow  would  have  been 
very  different,  could  the  popularity  of  the  thought 
embodied  in  them  have  been  foreseen,  and  time  and 
pains  given  to  make  the  vehicle  more  worthy  of  its 
freight.  Mending  them  has  been  thought  of;  but 
the  mending  of  well-known  poetry  with  new  verses, 
shows  as  ill  as  new  pieces  of  mahogany  in  old  furni 
ture. 

Thus  much  said  as  to  the  defects  of  his  poetry,  the 
author  has  no  hesitation  in  acknowledging  the  pedes- 


(iv) 

tal  on  which  public  favor  has  placed  him.  He  wishes 
that  he  could  climb  to  it  again  by  a  better  considered 
path — (by  a  path  less  accidental,  indeed,  for  he  -has 
written  from  present  feeling,  or  for  present  gain,  and 
with  no  design  upon  the  future.)  But,  leaving,  on  the 
turn  of  the  acclivity  of  life,  all  he  has  written,  up  to 
his  meridian,  he  promises  to  himself  more  care  in  what 
shall  occupy  the  down-hill  side, — care,  probably,  come 
too  late,  though  he  feels,  in  truth,  as  if  his  ripeness  of 
poetical  feeling  and  perception  were  all  before  him. 

To  those  who  read  him  in  his  youth,  the  author 
commends  this  book. 

New  York,  March,  1844. 


CONTENTS. 


SACRED  POEMS. 

Page. 

The  Healing  of  the  Daughter  of  Jairus 1 

The  Leper 5 

David's  Grief  for  his  Child 11 

The  Sacrifice  of  Abraham 16 

The  Shunammite 20 

Jephthah's  Daughter 24 

Absalom 28 

Christ's  Entrance  into  Jerusalem 32 

Baptism  of  Christ 35 

Scene  in  Gethsemane 38 

The  Widow  of  Nain 40 

Hagar  in  the  Wilderness 43 

Rizpah  with  her  Sons,  (the  day  before  they  were  hanged  on 

Gibeah) 48 

Lazarus  and  Mary 51 

Thoughts  while  making  the  Grave  of  a  new-born  Child 58 

On  the  Departure  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  White  from  his  Parish,  when 

chosen  President  of  Wabash  College 60 

Birth-day  Verses 63 

To  my  Mother  from  the  Appenines  66 

Lines  on  leaving  Europe 67 

A  true  Incident 70 

The  Mother  to  her  Child 72 

A  Thought  over  a  Cradle 74 

Thirty-five 75 


(vi) 

Page. 

Contemplation 76 

On  the  Death  of  a  Missionary 78 

On  the  Picture  of  a  "  Child  tired  of  Play" 81 

A  Child's  First  Impression  of  a  Star 83 

On  witnessing  a  Baptism 84 

Reverie  at  Glenmary 65 

To  a  City  Pigeon 86 

The  Belfry  Pigeon 87 

Saturday  Afternoon 89 

The  Sabbath 91 

Dedication  Hymn .'. 92 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

The  Dying  Alchymist 97 

Parrhasius 102 

The  Scholar  of  Thibet  Ben  Khorat 108 

The  Wife's  Appeal 119 

Melanie 128 

Lord  Ivon  and  his  Daughter 145 

To  Ermengarde 163 

The  Confessional 165 

Florence  Gray 169 

The  Pity  of  the  Park  Fountain  172 

"  Chamber  Scene" 173 

To  a  Stolen  Ring 174 

To  Her  who  has  Hopes  of  me 176 

The  Death  of  Harrison 178 

"She  was  not  there" 180 

Fail  me  not  Thou 182 

Spirit -whispers 183 

To  M ,  from  Abroad 184 

Sunrise  Thoughts  at  the  Close  of  a  Ball 185 

To  a  Face  Beloved 186 

Unseen  Spirits 188 


(vii) 


Page. 

Better  Moments 189 

The  Annoyer 192 

Andre's  Request  to  Washington 194 

Dawn 195 

Extract  from  a  Poem  delivered  at  the  Departure  of  the  Senior 

Class  in  Yale  College,  in  1827 196 

The  Elms  of  New  Haven 200 

Extracts  from  a  Poem  delivered  at  Brown  University  in  1830.  210 

The  Torn  Hat 214 

To  Laura  W ,  two  years  of  age 216 

On  the  Death  of  a  Young  Girl 218 

May 219 

The  Solitary 221 

Sonnet 223 

Acrostic — Sonnet  223 

The  Soldier's  Widow 224 

Starlight 226 

On  the  Death  of  Edward  Payson,  D.  D 227 

January  1,  1828 228 

January  1,  1829  230 

Psyche  before  the  Tribunal  of  Venus 231 

On  Seeing  a  Beautiful  Boy  at  Play 233 

Hero 235 

Idleness 237 

The  Burial  of  the  Champion  of  his  Class,  at  Yale  College . .  240 

Spring 242 

On  a  Picture  of  a  Girl  leading  her  Blind  Mother  through  the 

Wood 243 

Roaring  Brook,  (a  passage  of  scenery  in  Connecticut) 245 

An   Apology  for  avoiding,  after  long  separation,  a  woman 

once  loved 246 

To  Helen  in  a  Huff. 247 

City  Lyrics : 

To  the  Lady  in  the  Chemisette  with  Black  Buttons 250 


Page. 

The  Lady  in  the  White  Dress  whom  I  helped  into  the  Omnibus  252 

The  White  Chip  Hat 254 

You  know  if  it  was  You 255 

Love  in  a  Cottage 257 

The  Declaration 258 

The  Lady  Jane 263 


SACRED  POEMS. 


SACRED  POEMS. 


THE  HEALING  OF  THE  DAUGHTER  OF  JAIRUS. 

FRESHLY  the  cool  breath  of  the  coming  eve 

Stole  through  the  lattice,  and  the  dying  girl 

Felt  it  upon  her  forehead.     She  had  lain 

Since  the  hot  noontide  in  a  breathless  trance — 

Her  thin  pale  fingers  clasp'd  within  the  hand 

Of  the  heart-broken  Ruler,  and  her  breast, 

Like  the  dead  marble,  white  and  motionless. 

The  shadow  of  a  leaf  lay  on  her  lips, 

And,  as  it  stirr'd  with  the  awakening  wind, 

The  dark  lids  lifted  from  her  languid  eyes, 

And  her  slight  fingers  moved,  and  heavily 

She  turn'd  upon  her  pillow.     He  was  there — 

The  same  loved,  tireless  watcher,  and  she  look'd 

Into  his  face  until  her  sight  grew  dim 

With  the  fast-falling  tears ;    and,  with  a  sigh 

Of  tremulous  weakness  murmuring  his  name, 

She  gently  drew  his  hand  upon  her  lips, 

And  kiss'd  it  as  she  wept.     The  old  man  sunk 

Upon  his  knees,  and  in  the  drapery 

Of  the  rich  curtains  buried  up  his  face; 

And  when  the  twilight  fell,  the  silken  folds 

Stirr'd  with  his  prayer,  but  the  slight  hand  he  held 

Had  ceased  its  pressure — and  he  could  not  hear, 


(2) 

In  the  dead,  utter  silence,  that  a  breath 
Came  through  her  nostrils — and  her  temples  gave 
To  his  nice  touch  no  pulse — and,  at  her  mouth, 
He  held  the  lightest  curl  that  on  her  neck 
Lay  with  a  mocking  beauty,  and  his  gaze 
Ached  with  its  deathly  stillness.     ***** 

******     It  was  night— 

And,  softly,  o'er  the  Sea  of  Galilee, 

Danced  the  breeze-ridden  ripples  to  the  shore, 

Tipp'd  with  the  silver  sparkles  of  the  moon. 

The  breaking  waves  play'd  low  upon  the  beach 

Their  constant  music,  but  the  air  beside 

Was  still  as  starlight,  and  the  Saviour's  voice, 

In  its  rich  cadences  unearthly  sweet, 

Seem'd  like  some  just- born  harmony  in  the  air, 

Waked  by  the  power  of  wisdom.     On  a  rock, 

With  the  broad  moonlight  falling  on  his  brow, 

He  stood  and  taught  the  people.     At  his  feet 

Lay  his  small  scrip,  and  pilgrim's  scallop-shell, 

And  staff — for  they  had  waited  by  the  sea 

Till  he  came  o'er  from  Gadarene,  and  pray'd 

For  his  wont  teachings  as  he  came  to  land. 

His  hair  was  parted  meekly  on  his  brow, 

And  the  long  curls  from  off  his  shoulders  fell, 

As  he  lean'd  forward  earnestly,  and  still 

The  same  calm  cadence,  passionless  and  deep — 

And  in  his  looks  the  same  mild  majesty — 

And  in  his  mien  the  sadness  mix'd  with  power — 

FilPd  them  with  love  and  wonder.     Suddenly, 


(3) 

As  on  his  words  entrancedly  they  hung, 
The  crowd  divided,  and  among  them  stood 
JAIE.US  THE  RULER.     With  his  flowing  robe 
Gather'd  in  haste  about  his  loins,  he  came, 
And  fix'd  his  eyes  on  Jesus.     Closer  drew 
The  twelve  disciples  to  their  Master's  side  ; 
And  silently  the  people  shrunk  away, 
And  left  the  haughty  Ruler  in  the  midst 
Alone.     A  moment  longer  on  the  face 
Of  the  meek  Nazarene  he  kept  his  gaze, 
And,  as  the  twelve  look'd  on  him,  by  the  light 
Of  the  clear  moon  they  saw  a  glistening  tear 
Steal  to  his  silver  beard  ;  and,  drawing  nigh 
Unto  the  Saviour's  feet,  he  took  the  hem 
Of  his  coarse  mantle,  and  with  trembling  hands 
Press'd  it  upon  his  lips,  and  murmur'd  low, 
«  Master  !  my  daughter  /"—     ****** 


game  siivery 

That  shone  upon  the  lone  rock  by  the  sea, 
Slept  on  the  Ruler's  lofty  capitals, 
As  at  the  door  he  stood,  and  welcomed  in 
Jesus  and  his  disciples.     All  was  still. 
The  echoing  vestibule  gave  back  the  slide 
Of  their  loose  sandals,  and  the  arrowy  beam 
Of  moonlight,  slanting  to  the  marble  floor, 
Lay  like  a  spell  of  silence  in  the  rooms, 
As  Jairus  led  them  on.     With  hushing  steps 
He  trod  the  winding  stair;  but  ere  he  touched 
The  latchet,  from  within  a  whisper  came, 


© • — 

(4) 

"  Trouble  the  Master  not— for  she  is  dead  /" 
And  his  faint  hand  fell  nerveless  at  his  side, 
And  his  steps  falter'd,  and  his  broken  voice 
Choked  in  its  utterance ; — but  a  gentle  hand 
Was  laid  upon  his  arm,  and  in  his  ear 
The  Saviour's  voice  sank  thrillingly  and  low, 
"  She  is  not  dead — but  sleepeih." 

They  pass'd  in. 

The  spice-lamps  in  the  alabaster  urns 
Burn'd  dimly,  and  the  white  and  fragrant  smoke 
Curl'd  indolently  on  the  chamber  walls. 
The  silken  curtains  slumber'd  in  their  folds — 
Not  even  a  tassel  stirring  in  the  air — 
And  as  the  Saviour  stood  beside  the  bed, 
And  pray'd  inaudibly,  the  Ruler  heard 
The  quickening  division  of  his  breath 
As  he  grew  earnest  inwardly.     There  came 
A  gradual  brightness  o'er  his  calm,  sad  face ; 
And,  drawing  nearer  to  the  bed,  he  moved 
The  silken  curtains  silently  apart, 
And  look'd  upon  the  maiden. 

Like  a  form 

Of  matchless  sculpture  in  her  sleep  she  lay — 
The  linen  vesture  folded  on  her  breast, 
And  over  it  her  white  transparent  hands, 
The  blood  still  rosy  in  their  tapering  nails. 
A  line  of  pearl  ran  through  her  parted  lips, 
And  in  her  nostrils,  spiritually  thin, 


(5) 

The  breathing  curve  was  mockingly  like  life; 
And  round  beneath  the  faintly  tinted  skin 
Ran  the  light  branches  of  the  azure  veins; 
And  on  her  cheek  the  jet  lash  overlay, 
Matching  the  arches  pencill'd  on  her  brow. 
Her  hair  had  been  unbound,  and  falling  loose 
Upon  her  pillow,  hid  her  small  round  ears 
In  curls  of  glossy  blackness,  and  about 
Her  polish'd  neck,  scarce  touching  it,  they  hung, 
Like  airy  shadows  floating  as  they  slept. 
'Twas  heavenly  beautiful.     The  Saviour  raised 
Her  hand  from  off  her  bosom,  and  spread  out 
The  snowy  fingers  in  his  palm,  and  said, 
"Maiden!  Arise!" — and  suddenly  a  flush 
Shot  o'er  her  forehead,  and  along  her  lips 
And  through  her  cheek  the  rallied  color  ran; 
And  the  still  outline  of  her  graceful  form 
Stirr'd  in  the  linen  vesture;  and  she  clasp'd 
The  Saviour's  hand,  and  fixing  her  dark  eyes 
Full  on  his  beaming  countenance — AROSE  ! 


THE  LEPER. 


"  ROOM  for  the  leper !  Room  !"  And,  as  he  came, 
The  cry  pass'd  on — "  Room  for  the  leper  !  Room !" 
Sunrise  was  slanting  on  the  city  gates 


(6) 

Rosy  and  beautiful,  and  from  the  hills 
The  early  risen  poor  were  coming  in, 
Duly  and  cheerfully  to  their  toil,  and  up 
Rose  the  sharp  hammer's  clink,  and  the  far  hum 
Of  moving  wheels  and  multitudes  astir, 
And  all  that  in  a  city  murmur  swells — 
Unheard  but  by  the  watcher's  'weary  ear, 
Aching  with  night's  dull  silence,  or  the  sick 
Hailing  the  welcome  light  and  sounds  that  chase 
The  death-like  images  of  the  dark  away. 
"  Room  for  the  leper !"     And  aside  they  stood — 
Matron,  and  child,  and  pitiless  manhood — all 
Who  met  him  on  his  way — and  let  him  pass. 
And  onward  through  the  open  gate  he  came, 
A  leper  with  the  ashes  on  his  brow, 
Sackcloth  about  his  loins,  and  on  his  lip 
A  covering,  stepping  painfully  and  slow, 
And  with  a  difficult  utterance,  like  one 
Whose  heart  is  with  an  iron  nerve  put  down, 
Crying,  "  Unclean !  Unclean  !" 

'Twas  now  the  first 
Of  the  Judean  autumn,  and  the  leaves, 
Whose  shadows  lay  so  still  upon  his  path, 
Had  put  their  beauty  forth  beneath  the  eye 
Of  Judah's  loftiest  noble.     He  was  young, 
And  eminently  beautiful,  and  life 
Mantled  in  eloquent  fulness  on  his  lip, 
And  sparkled  in  his  glance  ;  and  in  his  mien 
There  was  a  gracious  pride  that  every  eye 


Follow'd  with  benisons — and  this  was  he! 

With  the  soft  airs  of  summer  there  had  come 

A  torpor  on  his  frame,  which  not  the  speed 

Of  his  best  barb,  nor  music,  nor  the  blast 

Of  the  bold  huntsman's  horn,  nor  aught  that  stirs 

The  spirit  to  its  bent,  might  drive  away. 

The  blood  beat  not  as  wont  within  his  veins; 

Dimness  crept  o'er  his  eye ;  a  drowsy  sloth 

Fetter'd  his  limbs  like  palsy,  and  his  mien, 

With  all  its  loftiness,  seem'd  struck  with  eld. 

Even  his  voice  was  changed — a  languid  moan 

Taking  the  place  of  the  clear  silver  key ; 

And  brain  and  sense  grew  faint,  as  if  the  light 

And  very  air  were  steep'd  in  sluggishness. 

He  strove  with  it  awhile,  as  manhood  will, 

Ever  too  proud  for  weakness,  till  the  rein 

Slackened  within  his  grasp,  and  in  its  poise 

The  arrowy  jereed  like  an  aspen  shook. 

Day  after  day,  he  lay  as  if  in  sleep. 

His  skin  grew  dry  and  bloodless,  and  white  scales, 

Circled  with  livid  purple,  cover'd  him. 

And  then  his  nails  grew  black,  and  fell  away 

From  the  dull  flesh  about  them,  and  the  hues 

Deepen'd  beneath  the  hard  unmoisten'd  scales, 

And  from  their  edges  grew  the  rank  white  hair, 

— And  Helon  was  a  leper! 

Day  was  breaking, 

When  at  the  altar  of  the  temple  stood 
The  holy  priest  of  God.     The  incense  lamp 


Burn'd  with  a  struggling  light,  and  a  low  chant 
SwelPd  through  the  hollow  arches  of  the  roof 
Like  an  articulate  wail,  and  there,  alone, 
Wasted  to  ghastly  thinness,  Helon  knelt. 
The  echoes  of  the  melancholy  strain 
Died  in  the  distant  aisles,  and  he  rose  up, 
Struggling  with  weakness,  and  bow'd  down  his  head 
Unto  the  sprinkled  ashes,  and  put  off 
His  costly  raiment  for  the  leper's  garb  ; 
And  with  the  sackcloth  round  him,  and  his  lip 
Hid  in  a  loathsome  covering,  stood  still. 
Waiting  to  hear  his  doom  : — 

Depart !  depart,  O  child 
Of  Israel,  from  the  temple  of  thy  God ! 
For  He  has  smote  thee  with  his  chastening  rod ; 

And  to  the  desert-wild, 

From  all  thou  lov'st,  away  thy  feet  must  flee, 
That  from  thy  plague  His  people  may  be  free. 

Depart !  and  come  not  near 
The  busy  mart,  the  crowded  city,  more ; 
Nor  set  thy  foot  a  human  threshold  o'er ; 

And  stay  thou  not  to  hear 
Voices  that  call  thee  in  the  way ;  and  fly 
From  all  who  in  the  wilderness  pass  by. 

Wet  not  thy  burning  lip 
In  streams  that  to  a  human  dwelling  glide  ; 
Nor  rest  thee  where  the  covert  fountains  hide ; 


(9) 

Nor  kneel  thee  down  to  dip 
The  water  where  the  pilgrim  bends  to  drink, 
By  desert  well  or  river's  grassy  brink ; 

And  pass  thou  not  between 
The  weary  traveller  and  the  cooling  breeze ; 
And  lie  not  down  to  sleep  beneath  the  trees 

Where  human  tracks  are  seen; 
Nor  milk  the  goat  that  browseth  on  the  plain, 
Nor  pluck  the  standing  corn,  or  yellow  grain. 

And  now  depart!  and  when 
Thy  heart  is  heavy,  and  thine  eyes  are  dim, 
Lift  up  thy  prayer  beseechingly  to  Him 

Who,  from  the  tribes  of  men, 
Selected  thee  to  feel  His  chastening  rod. 
Depart !  O  leper !  and  forget  not  God ! 

And  he  went  forth — alone !  not  one  of  all 
The  many  whom  he  loved,  nor  she  whose  name 
Was  woven  in  the  fibres  of  the  heart 
Breaking  within  him  now,  to  come  and  speak 
Comfort  unto  him.     Yea — he  went  his  way, 
Sick,  and  heart-broken,  and  alone — to  die! 
For  God  had  cursed  the  leper! 

It  was  noon, 

And  Helon  knelt  beside  a  stagnant  pool 
In  the  lone  wilderness,  and  bathed  his  brow, 
Hot  with  the  burning  leprosy,  and  touch'd 


(10) 

The  loathsome  water  to  his  fever'd  lips, 
Praying  that  he  might  be  so  blest — to  die ! 
Footsteps  approach'd,  and,  with  no  strength  to  flee, 
He  drew  the  covering  closer  on  his  lip, 
Crying,  "  Unclean  !  unclean !"  and  in  the  folds 
Of  the  coarse  sackcloth  shrouding  up  his  face, 
He  fell  upon  the  earth  till  they  should  pass. 
Nearer  the  Stranger  came,  and  bending  o'er 
The  leper's  prostrate  form,  pronounced  his  name — 
"  Helon  !"    The  voice  was  like  the  master-tone 
Of  a  rich  instrument — most  strangely  sweet ; 
And  the  dull  pulses  of  disease  awoke, 
And  for  a  moment  beat  beneath  the  hot 
And  leprous  scales  with  a  restoring  thrill. 
"  Helon !  arise  !"  and  he  forgot  his  curse, 
And  rose  and  stood  before  Him. 

Love  and  awe 

Mingled  in  the  regard  of  Helen's  eye 
As  he  beheld  the  stranger.     He  was  not 
In  costly  raiment  clad,  nor  on  his  brow 
The  symbol  of  a  princely  lineage  wore; 
No  followers  at  His  back,  nor  in  His  hand 
Buckler,  or  sword,  or  spear, — yet  in  his  mien 
Command  sat  throned  serene,  and  if  He  smiled, 
A  kingly  condescension  graced  His  lips, 
The  lion  would  have  crouch'd  to  in  his  lair. 
His  garb  was  simple,  and  His  sandals  worn; 
His  stature  modell'd  with  a  perfect  grace ; 
His  countenance  the  impress  of  a  God, 


(11) 

Touch'd  with  the  opening  innocence  of  a  child ; 

His  eye  was  blue  and  calm,  as  is  the  sky 

In  the  serenest  noon  ;  His  hair  unshorn 

Fell  to  His  shoulders ;  and  His  curling  beard 

The  fulness  of  perfected  manhood  bore. 

He  look'd  on  Helon  earnestly  awhile, 

As  if  His  heart  were  moved,  and,  stooping  down, 

He  took  a  little  water  in  His  hand 

And  laid  it  on  his  brow,  and  said,  "  Be  clean !" 

And  lo !  the  scales  fell  from  him,  and  his  blood 

Coursed  with  delicious  coolness  through  his  veins, 

And  his  dry  palms  grew  moist,  and  on  his  brow 

The  dewy  softness  of  an  infant's  stole. 

His  leprosy  was  cleansed,  and  he  fell  down 

Prostrate  at  Jesus'  feet  and  worshipp'd  him. 


DAVID  S  GRIEF  FOR  HIS  CHILD. 

'TWAS  daybreak,  and  the  fingers  of  the  dawn 

Drew  the  night's  curtain,  and  touch'd  silently 

The  eyelids  of  the  king.     And  David  woke, 

And  robed  himself,  and  pray'd.     The  inmates,  now, 

Of  the  vast  palace  were  astir,  and  feet 

Glided  along  the  tesselated  floors 

With  a  pervading  murmur,  and  the  fount 

Whose  music  had  been  all  the  night  unheard, 

Play'd  as  if  light  had  made  it  audible ; 


(12) 

And  each  one,  waking,  bless'd  it  unaware. 

The  fragrant  strife  of  sunshine  with  the  morn 
Sweeten'd  the  air  to  ecstasy !  and  now 
The  king's  wont  was  to  lie  upon  his  couch 
Beneath  the  sky-roof  of  the  inner  court, 
And,  shut  in  from  the  world,  but  not  from  heaven, 
Play  with  his  loved  son  by  the  fountain's  lip ; 
For,  with  idolatry  confess'd  alone 
To  the  rapt  wires  of  his  reproofless  harp, 
He  loved  the  child  of  Bathsheba.     And  when 
The  golden  selvedge  of  his  robe  was  heard 
Sweeping  the  marble  pavement,  from  within 
Broke  forth  a  child's  laugh  suddenly,  and  words — 
Articulate,  perhaps,  to  his  heart  only — 
Pleading  to  come  to  him.     They  brought  the  boy — 
An  infant  cherub,  leaping  as  if  used 
To  hover  with  that  motion  upon  wings, 
And  marvellously  beautiful !     His  brow 
Had  the  inspired  up-lift  of  the  king's, 
And  kingly  was  his  infantine  regard ; 
But  his  ripe  mouth  was  of  the  ravishing  mould 
Of  Bathsheba's — the  hue  and  type  of  love, 
Rosy  and  passionate — and  oh,  the  moist 
Unfathomable  blue  of  his  large  eyes 
Gave  out  its  light  as  twilight  shows  a  star, 
And  drew  the  heart  of  the  'beholder  in ! — 
And  this  was  like  his  mother. 

David's  lips 
Moved  with  unutter'd  blessings,  and  awhile 


(13) 

He  closed  the  lids  upon  his  moisten'd  eyes, 
And,  with  the  round  cheek  of  the  nestling  boy 
Press'd  to  his  bosom,  sat  as  if  afraid 
That  but  the  lifting  of  his  lids  might  jar 
His  heart's  cup  from  its  fulness.     Unobserved, 
A  servant  of  the  outer  court  had  knelt 
Waiting  before  him ;  and  a  cloud  the  while 
Had  rapidly  spread  o'er  the  summer  heaven; 
And,  as  the  chill  of  the  withdrawing  sun 
Fell  on  the  king,  he  lifted  up  his  eyes 
And  frown'd  upon  the  servant — for  that  hour 
Was  hallow'd  to  his  heart  and  his  fair  child, 
And  none  might  seek  him.     And  the  king  arose, 
And  with  a  troubled  countenance  look'd  up 
To  the  fast-gathering  darkness;  and,  behold, 
The  servant  bow'd  himself  to  earth,  and  said, 
"  Nathan  the  prophet  cometh  from  the  Lord !" 
And  David's  lips  grew  white,  and  with  a  clasp 
Which  wrung  a  murmur  from  the  frighted  child, 
He  drew  him  to  his  breast,  and  cover 'd  him 
With  the  long  foldings  of  his  robe,  and  said, 
"  I  will  come  forth.     Go  now !"     And  lingeringly, 
With  kisses  on  the  fair  uplifted  brow, 
And  mingled  words  of  tenderness  and  prayer 
Breaking  in  tremulous  accents  from  his  lips, 
He  gave  to  them  the  child,  and  bow'd  his  head 
Upon  his  breast  with  agony.     And  so, 
To  hear  the  errand  of  the  man  of  God, 
He  fearfully  went  forth. 


(14) 

It  was  the  morning  of  the  seventh  day. 
A  hush  was  in  the  palace,  for  all  eyes 
Had  woke  before  the  morn;  and  they  who  drew 
The  curtains  to  let  in  the  welcome  light, 
Moved  in  their  chambers  with  unslipper'd  feet, 
And  listen'd  breathlessly.     And  still  no  stir! 
The  servants  who  kept  watch  without  the  door 
Sat  motionless;  the  purple  casement-shades 
From  the  low  windows  had  been  roll'd  away, 
To  give  the  child  air;  and  the  flickering  light 
That,  all  the  night,  within  the  spacious  court, 
Had  drawn  the  watcher's  eyes  to  one  spot  only, 
Paled  with  the  sunrise  and  fled  in. 

And  hush'd 

With  more  than  stillness  was  the  room  where  lay 
The  king's  son  on  his  mother's  breast.     His  locks 
Slept  at  the  lips  of  Bathsheba  unstirr'd — 
So  fearfully,  with  heart  and  pulse  kept  down, 
She  watch'd  his  breathless  slumber.     The  low  moan 
That  from  his  lips  all  night  broke  fitfully, 
Had  silenced  with  the  daybreak  ;  and  a  smile — 
Or  something  that  would  fain  have  been  a  smile— 
Play'd  in  his  parted  mouth  ;  and  though  his  lids 
Hid  not  the  blue  of  his  unconscious  eyes, 
His  senses  seem'd  all  peacefully  asleep, 
And  Bathsheba  in  silence  bless'd  the  morn — 
That  brought  back  hope  to  her  !     But  when  the  king 
Heard  not  the  voice  of  the  complaining  child, 
Nor  breath  from  out  the  room,  nor  foot  astir — 


(15) 

But  morning  there — so  welcomeless  and  still — 

He  groan'd  and  turn'd  upon  his  face.     The  nights 

Had  wasted ;  and  the  mornings  come ;  and  days 

Crept  through  the  sky,  unnumber'd  by  the  king, 

Since  the  child  sicken'd ;  and,  without  the  door, 

Upon  the  bare  earth  prostrate,  he  had  lain — 

Listening  only  to  the  moans  that  brought 

Their  inarticulate  tidings,  and  the  voice 

Of  Bathsheba,  whose  pity  and  caress, 

In  loving  utterance  all  broke  with  tears, 

Spoke  as  his  heart  would  speak  if  he  were  there, 

And  fill'd  his  prayer  with  agony.     Oh  God! 

To  thy  bright  mercy-seat  the  way  is  far ! 

How  fail  the  weak  words  while  the  heart  keeps  on! 

And  when  the  spirit,  mournfully,  at  last, 

Kneels  at  thy  throne,  how  cold,  how  distantly 

The  comforting  of  friends  falls  on  the  ear — 

The  anguish  they  would  speak  to,  gone  to  Thee ! 

But  suddenly  the  watchers  at  the  door 
Rose  up,  and  they  who  minister'd  within 
Crept  to  the  threshold  and  look'd  earnestly 
Where  the  king  lay.     And  still,  while  Bathsheba 
Held  the  unmoving  child  upon  her  knees, 
The  curtains  were  let  down,  and  all  came  forth, 
And,  gathering  with  fearful  looks  apart, 
Whisper'd  together. 

And  the  king  arose 
And  gazed  on  them  a  moment,  and  with  voice 


(16) 

Of  quick,  uncertain  utterance,  he  ask'd, 

"  Is  the  child  dead  ?"  They  answer'd,  "  He  is  dead !" 

But  when  they  look'd  to  see  him  fall  again 

Upon  his  face,  and  rend  himself  and  weep — 

For,  while  the  child  was  sick,  his  agony 

Would  bear  no  comforters,  and  they  had  thought 

His  heartstrings  with  the  tidings  must  give  way — 

Behold !  his  face  grew  calm,  and,  with  his  robe 

Gather'd  together  like  his  kingly  wont, 

He  silently  went  in. 

And  David  came, 

Robed  and  anointed,  forth,  and  to  the  house 
Of  God  went  up  to  pray.     And  he  return'd, 
And  they  set  bread  before  him,  and  he  ate — 
And  when  they  marvel  I'd,  he  said,  "  Wherefore  mourn  ? 
The  child  is  dead,  and  I  shall  go  to  him — 
But  he  mil  not  return  to  me." 


THE  SACRIFICE  OF  ABRAHAM. 

MORN  breaketh  in  the  east.     The  purple  clouds 

Are  putting  on  their  gold  and  violet, 

To  look  the  meeter  for  the  sun's  bright  coming. 

Sleep  is  upon  the  waters  and  the  wind ; 

And  nature,  from  the  wavy  forest-leaf 

To  her  majestic  master,  sleeps.     As  yet 


(17) 

There  is  no  mist  upon  the  deep  blue  sky, 

And  the  clear  dew  is  on  the  blushing  bosoms 

Of  crimson  roses  in  a  holy  rest. 

How  hallow'd  is  the  hour  of  morning !   meet — 

Ay,  beautifully  meet — for  the  pure  prayer. 

The  patriarch  standeth  at  his  tented  door, 

With  his  white  locks  uncover'd.     'Tis  his  wont 

To  gaze  upon  that  gorgeous  Orient ; 

And  at  that  hour  the  awful  majesty 

Of  man  who  talketh  often  with  his  God, 

Is  wont  to  come  again,  and  clothe  his  brow 

As  at  his  fourscore  strength.     But  now,  he  seemeth 

To  be  forgetful  of  his  vigorous  frame, 

And  boweth  to  his  staff  as  at  the  hour 

Of  noontide  sultriness.     And  that  bright  sun — 

He  looketh  at  its  pencill'd  messengers, 

Coming  in  golden  raiment,  as  if  all 

Were  but  a  graven  scroll  of  fearfulness. 

Ah,  he  is  waiting  till  it  herald  in 

The  hour  to  sacrifice  his  much-loved  son? 

Light  poureth  on  the  world.     And  Sarah  stands 
Watching  the  steps  of  Abraham  and  her  child 
Along  the  dewy  sides  of  the  far  hills, 
And  praying  that  her  sunny  boy  faint  not. 
Would  she  have  watch'd  their  path  so  silently, 
If  she  had  known  that  he  was  going  up, 
E'en  in  his  fair-hair'd  beauty,  to  be  slain 
As  a  white  lamb  for  sacrifice?     They  trod 
Together  onward,  patriarch  and  child — 


(18) 

The  bright  sun  throwing  back  the  old  man's  shade 

In  straight  and  fair  proportions,  as  of  one 

Whose  years  were  freshly  number 'd.     He  stood  up, 

Tall  in  his  vigorous  strength;  and,  like  a  tree 

Rooted  in  Lebanon,  his  frame  bent  not. 

His  thin  white  hairs  had  yielded  to  the  wind, 

And  left  his  brow  uncover'd ;  and  his  face, 

Impress'd  with  the  stern  majesty  of  grief 

Nerved  to  a  solemn  duty,  now  stood  forth 

Like  a  rent  rock,  submissive,  yet  sublime. 

But  the  young  boy — he  of  the  laughing  eye 

And  ruby  lip — the  pride  of  life  was  on  him. 

He  seem'd  to  drink  the  morning.     Sun  and  dew, 

And  the  aroma  of  the  spicy  trees, 

And  all  that  giveth  the  delicious  East 

Its  fitness  for  an  Eden,  stole  like  light 

Into  his  spirit,  ravishing  his  thoughts 

With  love  and  beauty.     Every  thing  he  met, 

Buoyant  or  beautiful,  the  lightest  wing 

Of  bird  or  insect,  or  the  palest  dye 

Of  the  fresh  flowers,  won  him  from  his  path ; 

And  joyously  broke  forth  his  tiny  shout, 

As  he  flung  back  his  silken  hair,  and  sprung 

Away  to  some  green  spot  or  clustering  vine, 

To  pluck  his  infant  trophies.     Every  tree 

And  fragrant  shrub  was  a  new  hiding-place  ; 

And  he  would  crouch  till  the  old  man  came  by, 

Then  bound  before  him  with  his  childish  laugh, 

Stealing  a  look  behind  him  playfully, 

To  see  if  he  had  made  his  father  smile. 


(19) 

The  sun  rode  on  in  heaven.     The  dew  stole  up 
From  the  fresh  daughters  of  the  earth,  and  heat 
Came  like  a  sleep  upon  the  delicate  leaves, 
And  bent  them  with  the  blossoms  to  their  dreams. 
Still  trod  the  patriarch  on,  with  that  same  step, 
Firm  and  unfaltering;  turning  not  aside 
To  seek  the  olive  shades,  or  lave  their  lips 
In  the  sweet  waters  of  the  Syrian  wells, 
Whose  gush  hath  so  much  music.     Weariness 
Stole  on  the  gentle  boy,  and  he  forgot 
To  toss  his  sunny  hair  from  off  his  brow, 
And  spring  for  the  fresh  flowers  and  light  wings 
As  in  the  early  morning;  but  he  kept 
Close  by  his  father's  side,  and  bent  his  head 
Upon  his  bosom  like  a  drooping  bud, 
Lifting  it  not,  save  now  and  then  to  steal 
A  look  up  to  the  face  whose  sternness  awed 
His  childishness  to  silence. 

It  was  noon — 

And  Abraham  on  Moriah  bow'd  himself, 
And  buried  up  his  face,  and  pray'd  for  strength. 
He  could  not  look  upon  his  son,  and  pray; 
But,  with  his  hand  upon  the  clustering  curls 
Of  the  fair,  kneeling  boy,  he  pray'd  that  God 
Would  nerve  him  for  that  hour.     Oh  !  man  was  made   ' 
For  the  stem  conflict.     In  a  mother's  love 
There  is  more  tenderness;  the  thousand  chords, 
Woven  with  every  fibre  of  her  heart, 
Complain,  like  delicate  harp-strings,  at  a  breath ; 


(20) 

But  love  in  man  is  one  deep  principle, 
Which,  like  a  root  grown  in  a  rifted  rock, 
Abides  the  tempest.     He  rose  up,  and  laid 
The  wood  upon  the  altar.     All  was  done. 
He  stood  a  moment — and  a  deep,  quick  flush 
Pass'd  o'er  his  countenance ;  and  then  he  nerved 
His  spirit  with  a  bitter  strength,  and  spoke — 
"  Isaac !  my  only  son  !" — The  boy  look'd  up, 
And  Abraham  turn'd  his  face  away,  and  wept. 
"  Where  is  the  lamb,  my  father  ?" — Oh  the  tones, 
The  sweet,  the  thrilling  music  of  a  child ! — 
How  it  doth  agonize  at  such  an  hour ! — 
It  was  the  last  deep  struggle.     Abraham  held 
His  loved,  his  beautiful,  his  only  son, 
And  lifted  up  his  arm,  and  call'd  on  God — 
And  lo!  God's  angel  stay'd  him — and  he  fell 
Upon  his  face,  and  wept. 


THE  SHUNAMMITE. 

IT  was  a  sultry  day  of  summer-time. 
The  sun  pour'd  down  upon  the  ripen'd  grain 
With  quivering  heat,  and  the  suspended  leaves 
Hung  motionless.     The  cattle  on  the  hills 
Stood  still,  and  the  divided  flock  were  all 
Laying  their  nostrils  to  the  cooling  roots, 
And  the  sky  look'd  like  silver,  and  it  seem'd 


(21) 

As  if  the  air  had  fainted,  and  the  pulse 

Of  nature  had  run  down,  and  ceased  to  beat. 

"Haste  thee,  my  child!"  the  Syrian  mother  said, 

"  Thy  father  is  athirst" — and,  from  the  depths 

Of  the  cool  well  under  the  leaning  tree, 

She  drew  refreshing  water,  and  with  thoughts 

Of  God's  sweet  goodness  stirring  at  her  heart, 

She  bless'd  her  beautiful  boy,  and  to  his  way 

Committed  him.     And  he  went  lightly  on, 

With  his  soft  hands  press'd  closely  to  the  cool 

Stone  vessel,  and  his  little  naked  feet 

Lifted  with  watchful  care ;  and  o'er  the  hills, 

And  through  the  light  green  hollows  where  the  lambs 

Go  for  the  tender  grass,  he  kept  his  way, 

Wiling  its  distance  with  his  simple  thoughts, 

Till,  in  the  wilderness  of  sheaves,  with  brows 

Throbbing  with  heat,  he  set  his  burden  down. 

Childhood  is  restless  ever,  and  the  boy 
Stay'd  not  within  the  shadow  of  the  tree, 
But  with  a  joyous  industry  went  forth 
Into  the  reaper's  places,  and  bound  up 
His  tiny  sheaves,  and  plaited  cunningly 
The  pliant  withs  out  of  the  shining  straw — 
Cheering  their  labor  on,  till  they  forgot 
The  heat  and  weariness  of  their  stooping  toil 
In  the  beguiling  of  his  playful  mirth. 
Presently  he  was  silent,  and  his  eye 
Closed  as  with  dizzy  pain,  and  with  his  hand 


(22) 

Press'd  hard  upon  his  forehead,  and  his  breast 
Heaving  with  the  suppression  of  a  cry, 
He  utter'd  a  faint  murmur,  and  fell  back 
Upon  the  loosen'd  sheaf,  insensible. 

They  bore  him  to  his  mother,  and  he  lay 
Upon  her  knees  till  noon — >and  then  he  died ! 
She  had  watch'd  every  breath,  and  kept  her  hand 
Soft  on  his  forehead,  and  gazed  in  upon 
The  dreamy  languor  of  his  listless  eye, 
And  she  had  laid  back  all  his  sunny  curls 
And  kiss'd  his  delicate  lip,  and  lifted  him 
Into  her  bosom,  till  her  heart  grew  strong — 
His  beauty  was  so  unlike  death !     She  lean'd 
Over  him  now,  that  she  might  catch  the  low 
Sweet  music  of  his  breath,  that  she  had  learn'd 
To  love  when  he  was  slumbering  at  her  side 
In  his  unconscious  infancy — 

«  — So  still ! 

3Tis  a  soft  sleep !     How  beautiful  he  lies, 
With  his  fair  forehead,  and  the  rosy  veins 
Playing  so  freshly  in  his  sunny  cheek ! 
How  could  they  say  that  he  would  die  !  Oh  God  ! 
I  could  not  lose  him  !  I  have  treasured  all 
His  childhood  in  my  heart,  and  even  now, 
As  he  has  slept,  my  memory  has  been  there, 
Counting  like  treasures  all  his  winning  ways — 
His  unforgotten  sweetness: — 

"  —Yet  so  still  !— 
How  like  this  breathless  slumber  is  to  death  ! 


(23) 

I  could  believe  that  in  that  bosom  now 

There  were  no  pulse — it  beats  so  languidly ! 

I  cannot  see  it  stir ;  but  his  red  lip ! 

Death  would  not  be  so  very  beautiful ! 

And  that  half  smile — would  death  have  left  that  there  ? 

— And  should  I  not  have  felt  that  he  would  die  ? 

And  have  I  not  wept  over  him  ? — and  pray'd 

Morning  and  night  for  him  ?     and  could  he  die  ? 

— No — God  will  keep  him  !     He  will  be  my  pride 

Many  long  years  to  come,  and  his  fair  hair 

Will  darken  like  his  father's,  and  his  eye 

Be  of  a  deeper  blue  when  he  is  grown ; 

And  he  will  be  so  tall,  and  I  shall  look 

With  such  a  pride  upon  him ! — He  to  die  !" 

And  the  fond  mother  lifted  his  soft  curls, 

And  smiled,  as  if  'twere  mockery  to  think 

That  such  fair  things  could  perish — 

— Suddenly 

Her  hand  shrunk  from  him,  and  the  color  fled 
From  her  fix'd  lip,  and  her  supporting  knees 
Were  shook  beneath  her  child.     Her  hand  had  touch'd 
His  forehead,  as  she  dallied  with  his  hair — 
And  it  was  cold — like  clay !     Slow,  very  slow, 
Came  the  misgiving  that  her  child  was  dead. 
She  sat  a  moment,  and  her  eyes  were  closed 
In  a  dumb  prayer  for  strength,  and  then  she  took 
His  little  hand  and  press'd  it  earnestly — 
And  put  her  lip  to  his — and  look'd  again 
Fearfully  on  him — and,  then  bending  low, 
She  whisper'd  in  his  ear,  "  My  son  ! — my  son  !" 


(24) 

And  as  the  echo  died,  and  not  a  sound 
Broke  on  the  stillness,  and  he  lay  there  still — 
Motionless  on  her  knee — the  truth  would  come ! 
And  with  a  sharp,  quick  cry,  as  if  her  heart 
Were  crush'd,  she  lifted  him  and  held  him  close 
Into  her  bosom — with  a  mother's  thought — 
As  if  death  had  no  power  to  touch  him  there ! 
********* 

The  man  of  God  came  forth,  and  led  the  child 
Unto  his  mother,  and  went  on  his  way. 
And  he  was  there — her  beautiful — her  own — 
Living  and  smiling  on  her — with  his  arms 
Folded  about  her  neck,  and  his  warm  breath 
Breathing  upon  her  lips,  and  in  her  ear 
The  music  of  his  gentle  voice  once  more ! 


JEPHTHAH'S  DAUGHTER. 

SHE  stood  before  her  father's  gorgeous  tent, 
To  listen  for  his  coming.     Her  loose  hair 
Was  resting  on  her  shoulders,  like  a  cloud 
Floating  around  a  statue,  and  the  wind, 
Just  swaying  her  light  robe,  reveal'd  a  shape 
Praxiteles  might  worship.     She  had  clasp'd 
Her  hands  upon  her  bosom,  and  had  raised 
Her  beautiful,  dark,  Jewish  eyes  to  heaven, 
Till  the  long  lashes  lay  upon  her  brow. 


(25) 

Her  lip  was  slightly  parted,  like  the  cleft 

Of  a  pomegranate  blossom ;  and  her  neck, 

Just  where  the  cheek  was  melting  to  its  curve 

With  the  unearthly  beauty  sometimes  there, 

Was  shaded,  as  if  light  had  fallen  off, 

Its  surface  was  so  polish'd.     She  was  stilling 

Her  light,  quick  breath,  to  hear;  and  the  white  rose 

Scarce  moved  upon  her  bosom,  as  it  swell'd, 

Like  nothing  but  a  lovely  wave  of  light, 

To  meet  the  arching  of  her  queenly  neck. 

Her  countenance  was  radiant  with  love. 

She  look'd  like  one  to  die  for  it — a  being 

Whose  whole  existence  was  the  pouring  out 

Of  rich  and  deep  affections.     I  have  thought 

A  brother's  and  a  sister's  love  were  much ; 

I  know  a  brother's  is — for  I  have  been 

A  sister's  idol — and  I  know  how  full 

The  heart  may  be  of  tenderness  to  her ! 

But  the  affection  of  a  delicate  child 

For  a  fond  father,  gushing,  as  it  does, 

With  the  sweet  springs  of  life,  and  pouring  on, 

Through  all  earth's  changes,  like  a  river's  course — 

Chasten'd  with  reverence,  and  made  more  pure 

By  the  world's  discipline  of  light  and  shade — 

'Tis  deeper — holier. 

The  wind  bore  on 

The  leaden  tramp  of  thousands.     Clarion  notes 
Rang  sharply  on  the  ear  at  intervals ; 
And  the  low,  mingled  din  of  mighty  hosts 
Returning  from  the  battle,  pour'd  from  far, 


(26) 

Like  the  deep  murmur  of  a  restless  sea. 

They  came,  as  earthly  conquerors  always  come, 

With  blood  and  splendor,  revelry  and  wo. 

The  stately  horse  treads  proudly — he  hath  trod 

The  brow  of  death,  as  well.     The  chariot- wheels 

Of  warriors  roll  magnificently  on — 

Their  weight  hath  crush'd  the  fallen.     Man  is  there — 

Majestic,  lordly  man — with  his  sublime 

And  elevated  brow,  and  godlike  frame  ; 

Lifting  his  crest  in  triumph — for  his  heel 

Hath  trod  the  dying  like  a  wine-press  down ! 

The  mighty  Jephthah  led  his  warriors  on 

Through  Mizpeh's  streets.     His  helm  was  proudly  set, 

And  his  stern  lip  curl'd  slightly,  as  if  praise 

Were  for  the  hero's  scorn.     His  step  was  firm, 

But  free  as  India's  leopard  ;  and  his  mail, 

Whose  shekels  none  in  Israel  might  bear, 

Was  like  a  cedar's  tassel  on  his  frame. 

His  crest  was  Judah's  kingliest ;  and  the  look 

Of  his  dark,  lofty  eye,  and  bended  brow, 

Might  quell  the  lion.     He  led  on;  but  thoughts 

Seem'd  gathering  round  which  troubled  him.    The  veins 

Grew  visible  upon  his  swarthy  brow, 

And  his  proud  lip  was  press'd  as  if  with  pain. 

He  trod  less  firmly ;  and  his  restless  eye 

Glanced  forward  frequently,  as  if  some  ill 

He  dared  not  meet,  were  there.     His  home  was  near ; 

And  men  were  thronging,  with  that  strange  delight 

They  have  in  human  passions,  to  observe 


(27) 

The  struggle  of  his  feelings  with  his  pride. 

He  gazed  intensely  forward.     The  tall  firs 

Before  his  tent  were  motionless.     The  leaves 

Of  the  sweet  aloe,  and  the  clustering  vines 

Which  half  conceal'd  his  threshold,  met  his  eye, 

Unchanged  and  beautiful;  and  one  by  one, 

The  balsam,  with  its  sweet-distilling  stems, 

And  the  Circassian  rose,  and  all  the  crowd 

Of  silent  and  familiar  things,  stole  up, 

Like  the  recover'd  passages  of  dreams. 

He  strode  on  rapidly.     A  moment  more, 

And  he  had  reach'd  his  home ;  when  lo !  there  sprang 

One  with  a  bounding  footstep,  and  a  brow 

Of  light,  to  meet  him.     Oh  how  beautiful ! — 

Her  dark  eye  flashing  like  a  sun-lit  gem — 

And  her  luxuriant  hair! — 'twas  like  the  sweep 

Of  a  swift  wing  in  visions.     He  stood  still, 

As  if  the  sight  had  wither 'd  him.     She  threw 

Her  arms  about  his  neck — he  heeded  not. 

She  call'd  him  "  Father"— but  he  answer'd  not. 

She  stood  and  gazed  upon  him.     Was  he  wroth  ? 

There  was  no  anger  in  that  blood-shot  eye. 

Had  sickness  seized  him  ?     She  unclasp'd  his  helm, 

And  laid  her  white  hand  gently  on  his  brow, 

And  the  large  veins  felt  stiff  and  hard,  like  cords. 

The  touch  aroused  him.     He  raised  up  his  hands, 

And  spoke  the  name  of  God,  in  agony. 

She  knew  that  he  was  stricken,  then ;  and  rush'd 

Again  into  his  arms ;  and,  with  a  flood 

Of  tears  she  could  not  bridle,  sobb'd  a  prayer 


(28) 

That  he  would  breathe  his  agony  in  words. 
He  told  her — and  a  momentary  flush 
Shot  o'er  her  countenance ;  and  then  the  soul 
Of  Jephthah's  daughter  waken'd ;  and  she  stood 
Calmly  and  nobly  up,  and  said  'twas  well — 
And  she  would  die. 

The  sun  had  well  nigh  set. 
The  fire  was  on  the  altar ;  and  the  priest 
Of  the  High  God  was  there.     A  pallid  man 
Was  stretching  out  his  trembling  hands  to  heaven, 
As  if  he  would  have  pray'd,  but  had  no  words — 
And  she  who  was  to  die,  the  calmest  one 
In  Israel  at  that  hour,  stood  up  alone, 
And  waited  for  the  sun  to  set.     Her  face 
Was  pale,  but  very  beautiful — her  lip 
Had  a  more  delicate  outline,  and  the  tint 
Was  deeper ;  but  her  countenance  was  like 
The  majesty  of  angels. 

The  sun  set — 
And  she  was  dead — but  not  by  violence. 


"  -4- 
ABSALOM. 

THE  waters  slept.     Night's  silvery  veil  hung  low 
On  Jordan's  bosom,  and  the  eddies  curl'd 
Their  glassy  rings  beneath  it,  like  the  still, 
Unbroken  beating  of  the  sleeper's  pulse. 


(29) 

The  reeds  bent  down  the  stream ;  the  willow  leaves, 
With  a  soft  cheek  upon  the  lulling  tide, 
Forgot  the  lifting  winds ;  and  the  long  stems, 
Whose  flowers  the  water,  like  a  gentle  nurse, 
Bears  on  its  bosom,  quietly  gave  way, 
And  lean'd,  in  graceful  attitudes,  to  rest. 
How  strikingly  the  course  of  nature  tells, 
By  its  light  heed  of  human  suffering, 
That  it  was  fashion'd  for  a  happier  world ! 

King  David's  limbs  were  weary.     He  had  fled 
From  far  Jerusalem;  and  now  he  stood, 
With  his  faint  people,  for  a  little  rest 
Upon  the  shore  of  Jordan.     The  light  wind 
Of  morn  was  stirring,  and  he  bared  his  brow 
To  its  refreshing  breath  ;  for  he  had  worn 
The  mourner's  covering,  and  he  had  not  felt 
That  he  could  see  his  people  until  now. 
They  gather'd  round  him  on  the  fresh  green  bank, 
And  spoke  their  kindly  words ;  and,  as  the  sun 
Rose  up  in  heaven,  he  knelt  among  them  there, 
And  bow'd  his  head  upon  his  hands  to  pray. 
Oh !  when  the  heart  is  full — when  bitter  thoughts 
Come  crowding  thickly  up  for  utterance, 
And  the  poor  common  words  of  courtesy 
Are  such  a  very  mockery — how  much 
The  bursting  heart  may  pour  itself  in  prayer ! 
He  pray'd  for  Israel — and  his  voice  went  up 
Strongly  and  fervently.     He  pray'd  for  those 
Whose  love  had  been  his  shield — and  his  deep  tones 
Grew  tremulous.     But,  oh  !  for  Absalom — 


(30) 

For  his  estranged,  misguided  Absalom — 

The  proud,  bright  being,  who  had  burst  away 

In  all  his  princely  beauty,  to  defy 

The  heart  that  cherish'd  him — for  him  he  pour'd, 

In  agony  that  would  not  be  controll'd, 

Strong  supplication,  and  forgave  him  there, 

Before  his  God,  for  his  deep  sinfulness. 
********* 

The  pall  was  settled.     He  who  slept  beneath 
Was  straighten'd  for  the  grave  ;  and,  as  the  folds 
Sunk  to  the  still  proportions,  they  betray'd 
The  matchless  symmetry  of  Absalom. 
His  hair  was  yet  unshorn,  and  silken  curls 
Were  floating  round  the  tassels  as  they  sway'd 
To  the  admitted  air,  as  glossy  now 
As  when,  in  hours  of  gentle  dalliance,  bathing 
The  snowy  fingers  of  Judea's  daughters. 
His  helm  was  at  his  feet  :  his  banner,  soil'd 
With  trailing  through  Jerusalem,  was  laid, 
Reversed,  beside  him  :  and  the  jewell'd  hilt, 
Whose  diamonds  lit  the  passage  of  his  blade, 
Rested,  like  mockery,  on  his  cover'd  brow. 
The  soldiers  of  the  king  trod  to  and  fro, 
Clad  in  the  garb  of  battle  ;  and  their  chief, 
The  mighty  Joab,  stood  beside  the  bier, 
And  gazed  upon  the  dark  pall  steadfastly, 
As  if  he  fear'd  the  slumberer  might  stir. 
A  slow  step  startled  him.     He  grasp'd  his  blade 
As  if  a  trumpet  rang ;  but  the  bent  form 
Of  David  enter'd,  and  he  gave  command, 


(31) 

In  a  low  tone,  to  his  few  followers, 
And  left  him  with  his  dead.     The  king  stood  still 
Till  the  last  echo  died ;  then,  throwing  off 
The  sackcloth  from  his  brow,  and  laying  back 
The  pall  from  the  still  features  of  his  child, 
He  bow'd  his  head  upon  him,  and  broke  forth 
In  the  resistless  eloquence  of  wo : 

"  Alas !  my  noble  boy !  that  thou  shouldst  die ! 

Thou,  who  wert  made  so  beautifully  fair  ! 
That  death  should  settle  in  thy  glorious  eye, 

And  leave  his  stillness  in  this  clustering  hair ! 
How  could  he  mark  thee  for  the  silent  tomb  f 
My  proud  boy,  Absalom  ! 

"  Cold  is  thy  brow,  my  son  !  and  I  am  chill, 
As  to  my  bosom  I  have  tried  to  press  thee ! 

How  was  I  wont  to  feel  my  pulses  thrill, 

Like  a  rich  harp-string,  yearning  to  caress  thee, 

And  hear  thy  sweet  *  my  father  /'  from  these  dumb 
And  cold  lips,  Absalom  ! 

"But  death  is  on  thee.     I  shall  hear  the  gush 
Of  music,  and  the  voices  of  the  young ; 

And  life  will  pass  me  in  the  mantling  blush, 
And  the  dark  tresses  to  the  soft  winds  flung  ; — 

But  thou  no  more,  with  thy  sweet  voice,  shalt  come 
To  meet  me,  Absalom ! 

"  And  oh !  when  I  am  stricken,  and  my  heart, 
Like  a  bruised  reed,  is  waiting  to  be  broken, 


(32) 

How  will  its  love  for  thee,  as  I  depart, 

Yearn  for  thine  ear  to  drink  its  last  deep  token ! 
It  were  so  sweet,  amid  death's  gathering  gloom, 
To  see  thee,  Absalom ! 

"  And  now,  farewell !     ?Tis  hard  to  give  thee  up, 
With  death  so  like  a  gentle  slumber  on  thee  ; — 

And  thy  dark  sin ! — Oh  !  I  could  drink  the  cup, 
If  from  this  wo  its  bitterness  had .  won  thee. 

May  God  have  call'd  thee,  like  a  wanderer,  home, 
My  lost  boy  Absalom!" 

•"*5a—ZZZ«^- 

He  cover 'd  up  his  face,  and  bow'd  himself 
A  moment  on  his  child  :  then,  giving  him 
A  look  of  melting  tenderness,  he  clasp'd 
His  hands  convulsively,  as  if  in  prayer ; 
And,  as  if  strength  were  given  him  of  God, 
He  rose  up  calmly,  and  composed  the  pall 
Firmly  and  decently — and  left  him  there — 
As  if  his  rest  had  been  a  breathing  sleep. 


CHRIST'S  ENTRANCE  INTO  JERUSALEM. 

HE  sat  upon  the  "ass's  foal"  and  rode 
Toward  Jerusalem.     Beside  him  walk'd, 
Closely  and  silently,  the  faithful  twelve, 


(33) 

And  on  before  him  went  a  multitude 
Shouting  Hosannas,  and  with  eager  hands 
Strewing  their  garments  thickly  in  his  way. 
Th'  unbroken  foal  beneath  him  gently  stepp'd, 
Tame  as  its  patient  dam ;  and  as  the  song 
Of  "  welcome  to  the  Son  of  David"  burst 
Forth  from  a  thousand  children,  and  the  leaves 
Of  the  waved  branches  touch'd  its  silken  ears, 
It  turn'd  its  wild  eye  for  a  moment  back, 
And  then,^subdued .  by  an  invisible  hand, 
Meekly  trode  onward  with  its  slender  feet. 

The  dew's  last  sparkle  from  the  grass  had  gone 
As  he  rode  up  Mount  Olivet.     The  woods 
Threw  their  cool  shadows  freshly  to  the  west, 
And  the  light  foal,  with  quick  and  toiling  step, 
And  head  bent  low,  kept  its  unslacken'd  way 
Till  its  soft  mane  was  lifted  by  the  wind 
Sent  o'er  the  mount  from  Jordan.     As  he  reach'd 
The  summit's  breezy  pitch,  the  Saviour  raised 
His  calm  blue  eye — there  stood  Jerusalem ! 
Eagerly  he  bent  forward,  and  beneath 
His  mantle's  passive  folds,  a  bolder  line 
Than  the  wont  slightness  of  his  perfect  limbs 
Betray'd  the  swelling  fulness  of  his  heart. 
There  stood  Jerusalem !     How  fair  she  look'd — 
The  silver  sun  on  all  her  palaces, 
And  her  fair  daughters  'mid  the  golden  spires 
Tending  their  terrace  flowers,  and  Kedron's  stream 
Lacing  the  meadows  with  its  silver  band, 


(34) 

And  wreathing  its  mist-mantle  on  the  sky 

With  the  morn's  exhalations.     There  she  stood — 

Jerusalem — the  city  of  his  love, 

Chosen  from  all  the  earth ;  Jerusalem — 

That  knew  him  not — and  had  rejected  him ; 

Jerusalem — for  whom  he  came  to  die ! 

The  shouts  redoubled  from  a  thousand  lips 

At  the  fair  sight ;  the  children  leap'd  and  sang 

Louder  Hosannas ;  the  clear  air  was  fill'd 

With  odor  from  the  trampled  olive-leaves — 

But  "  Jesus  wept."     The  loved  disciple  saw 

His  Master's  tears,  and  closer  to  his  side 

He  came  with  yearning  looks,  and  on  his  neck 

The  Saviour  leant  with  heavenly  tenderness, 

And  mourn'd — "  How  oft,  Jerusalem  !  would  I 

Have  gather'd  you,  as  gathereth  a  hen 

Her  brood  beneath  her  wings — but  ye  would  not !" 

He  thought  not  of  the  death  that  he  should  die — 

He  thought  not  of  the  thorns  he  knew  must  pierce 

His  forehead — of  the  buffet  on  the  cheek — 

The  scourge,  the  mocking  homage,  the  foul  scorn  ! — 

Gethsemane  stood  out  beneath  his  eye 

Clear  in  the  morning  sun,  and  there,  he  knew, 

While  they  who  "  could  not  watch  with  him  one  hour" 

Were  sleeping,  he  should  sweat  great  drops  of  blood, 

Praying  the  "  cup  might  pass."     And  Golgotha 

Stood  bare  and  desert  by  the  city  wall, 

And  in  its  midst,  to  his  prophetic  eye, 

Rose  the  rough  cross,  and  its  keen  agonies 


(35) 

Were  number'd  all — the  nails  were  in  his  feet — 

Th'  insulting  sponge  was  pressing  on  his  lips — 

The  blood  and  water  gushing  from  his  side — 

The  dizzy  faintness  swimming  in  his  brain — 

And,  while  his  own  disciples  fled  in  fear, 

A  world's  death-agonies  all  mix'd  in  his  ! 

Ay ! — he  forgot  all  this.     He  only  saw 

Jerusalem, — the  chos'n — the  loved — the  lost ! 

He  only  felt  that  for  her  sake  his  life 

Was  vainly  giv'n,  and,  in  his  pitying  love, 

The  sufferings  that  would  clothe  the  Heavens  in  black, 

Were  quite  forgotten.     Was  there  ever  love, 

In  earth  or  heaven,  equal  unto  this  ? 


BAPTISM  OF  CHRIST. 

IT  was  a  green  spot  in  the  wilderness, 
Touch'd  by  the  river  Jordan.     The  dark  pine 
Never  had  dropp'd  its  tassels  on  the  moss 
Tufting  the  leaning  bank,  nor  on  the  grass 
Of  the  broad  circle  stretching  evenly 
To  the  straight  larches,  had  a  heavier  foot 
Than  the  wild  heron's  trodden.     Softly  in 
Through  a  long  aisle  of  willows,  dim  and  cool, 
Stole  the  clear  waters  with  their  muffled  feet, 
And,  hushing  as  they  spread  into  the  light, 
Circled  the  edges  of  the  pebbled  tank 


(36) 

Slowly,  then  rippled  through  the  woods  away. 
Hither  had  come  th'  Apostle  of  the  wild, 
Winding  the  river's  course.     'Twas  near  the  flush 
Of  eve,  and,  with  a  multitude  around, 
Who  from  the  cities  had  come  out  to  hear, 
He  stood  breast-high  amid  the  running  stream, 
Baptizing  as  the  Spirit  gave  him  power. 
His  simple  raiment  was  of  camel's  hair, 
A  leathern  girdle  close  about  his  loins, 
His  beard  unshorn,  and  for  his  daily  meat 
The  locust  and  wild  honey  of  the  wood — 
But  like  the  face  of  Moses  on  the  mount 
Shone  his  rapt  countenance,  and  in  his  eye 
Burn'd  the  mild  fire  of  love — and  as  he  spoke 
The  ear  lean'd  to  him,  and  persuasion  swift 
To  the  chain'd  spirit  of  the  listener  stole. 

Silent  upon  the  green  and  sloping  bank 
The  people  sat,  and  while  the  leaves  were  shook 
With  the  birds  dropping  early  to  their  nests, 
And  the  gray  eve  came  on,  within  their  hearts 
They  mused  if  he  were  Christ.     The  rippling  stream 
Still  turn'd  its  silver  courses  from  his  breast 
As  he  divined  their  thought.     "  I  but  baptize," 
He  said,  "  with  water ;  but  there  cometh  One, 
The  latchet  of  whose  shoes  I  may  not  dare 
E'en  to  unloose.     He  will  baptize  with  fire 
And  with  the  Holy  Ghost."     And  lo!  while  yet 
The  words  were  on  his  lips,  he  raised  his  eyes, 
And  on  the  bank  stood  Jesus.     He  had  laid 


(37) 

His  raiment  off,  and  with  his  loins  alone 

Girt  with  a  mantle,  and  his  perfect  limbs, 

In  their  angelic  slighmess,  meek  and  bare, 

He  waited  to  go  in.     But  John  forbade, 

And  hurried  to  his  feet  and  stay'd  him  there, 

And  said,  "  Nay,  Master !  I  have  need  of  thine, 

Not  thou  of  mine  /"     And  Jesus,  with  a  smile 

Of  heavenly  sadness,  met  his  earnest  looks, 

And  answer'd,  "  Suffer  it  to  be  so  now ; 

For  thus  it  doth  become  me  to  fulfil 

All  righteousness."     And,  leaning  to  the  stream, 

He  took  around  him  the  Apostle's  arm, 

And  drew  him  gently  to  the  midst.     The  wood 

Was  thick  with  the  dim  twilight  as  they  came 

Up  from  the  water.     With  his  clasped  hands 

Laid  on  his  breast,  th'  Apostle  silently 

Followed  his  Master's  steps — when  lo !  a  light, 

Bright  as  the  tenfold  glory  of  the  sun, 

Yet  lambent  as  the  softly  burning  stars, 

Envelop'd  them,  and  from  the  heavens  away 

Parted  the  dim  blue  ether  like  a  veil ; 

And  as  a  voice,  fearful  exceedingly, 

Broke  from  the  midst,  "  THIS  is  MY  MUCH  LOVED  SON 

IN  WHOM  I  AM  WELL  PLEASED,"  a  snow- white  dove, 

Floating  upon  its  wings,  descended  through ; 

And  shedding  a  swift  music  from  its  plumes, 

Circled,  and  flutter 'd  to  the  Saviour's  breast. 


(38) 


SCENE  IN  GETHSEMANE. 

THE  moon  was  shining  yet.     The  Orient's  brow, 

Set  with  the  morning-star,  was  not  yet  dim ; 

And  the  deep  silence  which  subdues  the  breath 

Like  a  strong  feeling,  hung  upon  the  world 

As  sleep  upon  the  pulses  of  a  child. 

'Twas  the  last  watch  of  night.     Gethsemane, 

With  its  bathed  leaves  of  silver,  seem'd  dissolved 

In  visible  stillness ;  and  as  Jesus'  voice, 

With  its  bewildering  sweetness,  met  the  ear 

Of  his  disciples,  it  vibrated  on 

Like  the  first  whisper  in  a  silent  world. 

They  came  on  slowly.     Heaviness  oppress'd 

The  Saviour's  heart,  and  when  the  kindnesses 

Of  his  deep  love  were  pour'd,  he  felt  the  need 

Of  near  communion,  for  his  gift  of  strength 

Was  wasted  by  the  spirit's  weariness. 

He  left  them  there,  and  went  a  little  on, 

And  in  the  depth  of  that  hush'd  silentness, 

Alone  with  God,  he  fell  upon  his  face, 

And  as  his  heart  was  broken  with  the  rush 

Of  his  surpassing  agony,  and  death, 

Wrung  to  him  from  a  dying  universe, 

Was  mightier  than  the  Son  of  man  could  bear, 

He  gave  his  sorrows  way — and  in  the  deep 

Prostration  of  his  soul,  breathed  out  the  prayer, 


(39) 

"  Father,  if  it  be  possible  with  thee, 

Let  this  cup  pass  from  me."     Oh,  how  a  word, 

Like  the  forced  drop  before  the  fountain  breaks, 

Stilleth  the  press  of  human  agony  ! 

The  Saviour  felt  its  quiet  in  his  soul ; 

And  though  his  strength  was  weakness,  and  the  light 

Which  led  him  on  till  now  was  sorely  dim, 

He  breathed  a  new  submission — "  Not  my  will, 

But  thine  be  done,  oh  Father  !"     As  he  spoke, 

Voices  were  heard  in  heaven,  and  music  stole 

Out  from  the  chambers  of  the  vaulted  sky 

As  if  the  stars  were  swept  like  instruments. 

No  cloud  was  visible,  but  radiant  wings 

Were  coming  with  a  silvery  rush  to  earth, 

And  as  the  Saviour  rose,  a  glorious  one, 

With  an  illumined  forehead,  and  the  light 

Whose  fountain  is  the  mystery  of  God, 

Encalm'd  within  his  eye,  bow'd  down  to  him, 

And  nerved  him  with  a  ministry  of  strength. 

It  was  enough — and  with  his  godlike  brow 

Re-written  of  his  Father's  messenger, 

With  meekness,  whose  divinity  is  more 

Than  power  and  glory,  he  return'd  again 

To  his  disciples,  and  awaked  their  sleep, 

For  "  he  that  should  betray  him  was  at  hand." 


(40) 


THE  WIDOW  OF  NAIN. 

THE  Roman  sentinel  stood  helm'd  and  tall 
Beside  the  gate  of  Nain.     The  busy  tread 
Of  comers  to  the  city  mart  was  done, 
For  it  was  almost  noon,  and  a  dead  heat 
Quiver'd  upon  the  fine  and  sleeping  dust, 
And  the  cold  snake  crept  panting  from  the  wall, 
And  bask'd  his  scaly  circles  in  the  sun. 
Upon  his  spear  the  soldier  lean'd,  and  kept 
His  idle  watch,  and,  as  his  drowsy  dream 
Was  broken  by  the  solitary  foot 
Of  some  poor  mendicant,  he  raised  his  head 
To  curse  him  for  a  tributary  Jew, 
And  slumberously  dozed  on. 

'Twas  now  high  noon. 
The  dull,  low  murmur  of  a  funeral 
Went  through  the  city — the  sad  sound  of  feet 
Unmix 'd  with  voices — and  the  sentinel 
Shook  off  his  slumber,  and  gazed  earnestly 
Up  the  wide  streets  along  whose  paved  way 
The  silent  throng  crept  slowly.     They  came  on, 
Bearing  a  body  heavily  on  its  bier, 
And  by  the  crowd  that  in  the  burning  sun, 
Walk'd  with  forgetful  sadness,  'twas  of  one 
Mourn'd  with  uncommon  sorrow.     The  broad  gate 
Swung  on  its  hinges,  and  the  Roman  bent 


(41) 

His  spear-point  downwards  as  the  bearers  pass'd, 
Bending  beneath  their  burden.     There  was  one — 
Only  one  mourner.     Close  behind  the  bier, 
Crumpling  the  pall  up  in  her  wither'd  hands, 
Follow'd  an  aged  woman.     Her  short  steps 
Falter'd  with  weakness,  and  a  broken  moan 
Fell  from  her  lips,  thicken'd  convulsively 
As  her  heart  bled  afresh.     The  pitying  crowd 
Follow'd  apart,  but  no  one  spoke  to  her. 
She  had  no  kinsmen.     She  had  lived  alone — 
A  widow  with  one  son.     He  was  her  all — 
The  only  tie  she  had  in  the  wide  world — 
And  he  was  dead.     They  could  not  comfort  her. 

Jesus  drew  near  to  Nain  as  from  the  gate 
The  funeral  came  forth.     His  lips  were  pale 
With  the  noon's  sultry  heat.     The  beaded  sweat 
Stood  thickly  on  his  brow,  and  on  the  worn 
And  simple  latchets  of  his  sandals  lay, 
Thick,  the  white  dust  of  travel.     He  had  come 
Since  sunrise  from  Capernaum,  staying  not 
To  wet  his  lips  by  green  Bethsaida's  pool, 
Nor  wash  his  feet  in  Kishon's  silver  springs, 
Nor  turn  him  southward  upon  Tabor's  side 
To  catch  Gilboa's  light  and  spicy  breeze. 
Genesareth  stood  cool  upon  the  East, 
Fast  by  the  Sea  of  Galilee,  and  there 
The  weary  traveller  might  bide  till  eve ; 
And  on  the  alders  of  Bethulia's  plains 
The  grapes  of  Palestine  hung  ripe  and  wild ; 


(42) 

Yet  turn'd  he  not  aside,  but,  gazing  on, 
From  every  swelling  mount  he  saw  afar, 
Amid  the  hills,  the  humble  spires  of  Nain, 
The  place  of  his  next  errand  ;  and  the  path 
Touch'd  not  Bethulia,  and  a  league  away 
Upon  the  East  lay  pleasant  Galilee. 

Forth  from  the  city-gate  the  pitying  crowd 

Follow'd  the  stricken  mourner.     They  came  near 

The  place  of  burial,  and,  with  straining  hands, 

Closer  upon  her  breast  she  clasp'd  the  pall, 

And  with  a  gasping  sob,  quick  as  a  child's, 

And  an  inquiring  wildness  flashing  through. 

The  thin  gray  lashes  of  her  fever'd  eyes, 

She  came  where  Jesus  stood  beside  the  way. 

He  look'd  up-jn  her,  and  his  heart  was  moved. 

"  Weep  not !"  he  said  ;  and  as  they  stay'd  the  bier, 

And  at  his  bidding  laid  it  at  his  feet, 

He  gently  drew  the  pall  from  out  her  grasp, 

And  laid  it  back  in  silence  from  the  dead. 

With  troubled  wonder  the  mute  throng  drew  near, 

And  gazed  on  his  calm  looks.     A  minute's  space 

He  stood  and  pray'd.     Then,  taking  the  cold  hand, 

He  said,  "  Arise  !"     And  instantly  the  breast 

Heaved  in  its  cerements,  and  a  sudden  flush 

Ran  through  the  lines  of  the  divided  lips, 

And  with  a  murmur  of  his  mother's  name, 

He  trembled  and  sat  upright  in  his  shroud. 

And,  while  the  mourner  hung  upon  his  neck, 

Jesus  went  calmly  on  his  way  to  Nain. 


(43) 


HAGAR  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

THE  morning  broke.     Light  stole  upon  the  clouds 
With  a  strange  beauty.     Earth  received  again 
Its  garment  of  a  thousand  dyes ;  and  leaves, 
And  delicate  blossoms,  and  the  painted  flowers, 
And  every  thing  that  bendeth  to  the  dew, 
And  stirreth  with  the  daylight,  lifted  up 
Its  beauty  to  the  breath  of  that  sweet  morn. 

All  things  are  dark  to  sorrow ;  and  the  light 
And  loveliness,  and  fragrant  air  were  sad 
To  the  dejected  Hagar.     The  moist  earth 
Was  pouring  odors  from  its  spicy  pores, 
And  the  young  birds  were  singing  as  if  life 
Were  a  new  thing  to  them ;  but  oh  !  it  came 
Upon  her  heart  like  discord,  and  she  felt 
How  cruelly  it  tries  a  broken  heart, 
To  see  a  mirth  in  any  thing  it  loves. 
She  stood  at  Abraham's  tent.     Her  lips  were  press'd 
Till  the  blood  started;  and  the  wandering  veins 
Of  her  transparent  forehead  were  swell'd  out, 
As  if  her  pride  would  burst  them.     Her  dark  eye 
Was  clear  and  tearless,  and  the  light  of  heaven, 
Which  made  its  language  legible,  shot  back, 
From  her  long  lashes,  as  it  had  been  flame. 
Her  noble  boy  stood  by  her,  with  his  hand 


(44) 

Clasp'd  in  her  own,  and  his  round,  delicate  feet, 
Scarce  train'd  to  balance  on  the  tented  floor, 
SandalPd  for  journeying.     He  had  look'd  up 
Into  his  mother's  face  until  he  caught 
The  spirit  there,  and  his  young  heart  was  swelling 
Beneath  his  dimpled  bosom,  and  his  form 
Straighten'd  up  proudly  in  his  tiny  wrath, 
As  if  his  light  proportions  would  have  swell'd, 
Had  they  but  match'd  his  spirit,  to  the  man. 

Why  bends  the  patriarch  as  he  cometh  now 
Upon  his  staff  so  wearily  ?     His  beard 
Is  low  upon  his  breast,  and  his  high  brow, 
So  written  with  the  converse  of  his  God, 
Beareth  the  swollen  vein  of  agony. 
His  lip  is  quivering,  and  his  wonted  step 
Of  vigor  is  not  there  ;  and,  though  the  morn 
Is  passing  fair  and  beautiful,  he  breathes 
Its  freshness  as  it  were  a  pestilence. 
Oh !  man  may  bear  with  suffering :  his  heart 
Is  a  strong  thing,  and  godlike,  in  the  grasp 
Of  pain  that  wrings  mortality ;  but  tear 
One  chord  affection  clings  to — part  one  tie 
That  binds  him  to  a  woman's  delicate  love — 
And  his  great  spirit  yieldeth  like  a  reed. 

He  gave  to  her  the  water  and  the  bread, 
But  spoke  no  word,  and  trusted  not  himself 
To  look  upon  her  face,  but  laid  his  hand 
In  silent  blessing  on  the  fair-hair'd  boy, 
And  left  her  to  her  lot  of  loneliness. 


(45) 

Should  Hagar  weep  ?     May  slighted  woman  turn, 
And,  as  a  vine  the  oak  hath  shaken  off, 
Bend  lightly  to  her  leaning  trust  again? 
O  no!  by  all  her  loveliness — by  all 
That  makes  life  poetry  and  beauty,  no ! 
Make  her  a  slave ;  steal  from  her  rosy  cheek 
By  needless  jealousies ;  let  the  last  star 
Leave  her  a  watcher  by  your  couch  of  pain ; 
Wrong  her  by  petulance,  suspicion,  all 
That  makes  her  cup  a  bitterness — yet  give 
One  evidence  of  love,  and  earth  has  not 
An  emblem  of  devotedness  like  hers. 
But  oh !  estrange  her  once — it  boots  not  how — 
By  wrong  or  silence — any  thing  that  tells 
A  change  has  come  upon  your  tenderness, — 
And  there  is  not  a  feeling  out  of  heaven 
Her  pride  o'ermastereth  not. 

She  went  her  way  with  a  strong  step  and  slow — 
Her  press'd  lip  arch'd,  and  her  clear  eye  undimm'd, 
As  if  it  were  a  diamond,  and  her  form 
Borne  proudly  up,  as  if  her  heart  breathed  through. 
Her  child  kept  on  in  silence,  though  she  press'd 
His  hand  till  it  was  pain'd ;  for  he  had  caught, 
As  I  have  said,  her  spirit,  and  the  seed 
Of  a  stern  nation  had  been  breathed  upon. 

The  morning  pass'd,  and  Asia's  sun  rode  up 
In  the  clear  heaven,  and  every  beam  was  heat. 
The  cattle  of  the  hills  were  in  the  shade, 


(46) 

And  the  bright  plumage  of  the  Orient  lay 

On  beating  bosoms  in  her  spicy  trees. 

It  was  an  hour  of  rest  !  but  Hagar  found 

No  shelter  in  the  wilderness,  and  on 

She  kept  her  weary  way,  until  the  boy 

Hung  down  his  head,  and  open'd  his  parch'd  lips 

For  water;  but  she  could  not  give  it  him. 

She  laid  him  down  beneath  the  sultry  sky, — 

For  it  was  better  than  the  close,  hot  breath 

Of  the  thick  pines, — and  tried  to  comfort  him ; 

But  he  was  sore  athirst,  and  his  blue  eyes 

Were  dim  and  blood-shot,  and  he  could  not  know 

Why  God  denied  him  water  in  the  wild. 

She  sat  a  little  longer,  and  he  grew 

Ghastly  and  faint,  as  if  he  would  have  died. 

It  was  too  much  for  her.     She  lifted  him, 

And  bore  him  further  on,  and  laid  his  head 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  a  desert  shrub ; 

And,  shrouding  up  her  face,  she  went  away, 

And  sat  to  watch,  where  he  could  see  her  not, 

Till  he  should  die ;  and,  watching  him,  she  mourn'd 

"  God  stay  thee  in  thine  agony,  my  boy ! 
I  cannot  see  thee  die  ;  I  cannot  brook 

Upon  thy  brow  to  look, 
And  see  death  settle  on  my  cradle  joy. 
How  have  I  drunk  the  light  of  thy  blue  eye ! 

And  could  I  see  thee  die? 

"  I  did  not  dream  of  this  when  thou  wast  straying, 
Like  an  unbound  gazelle,  among  the  flowers; 


(47) 

Or  wiling  the  soft  hours, 
By  the  rich  gush  of  water-sources  playing, 
Then  sinking  weary  to  thy  smiling  sleep, 

So  beautiful  and  deep. 

"Oh  no  !  and  when  I  watch 'd  by  thee  the  while, 
And  saw  thy  bright  lip  curling  in  thy  dream, 

And  thought  of  the  dark  stream 
In  my  own  land  of  Egypt,  the  far  Nile, 
How  pray'd  I  that  my  father's  land  might  be 

An  heritage  for  thee  ! 

"  And  now  the  grave  for  its  cold  breast  hath  won  thee  ! 
And  thy  white,  delicate  limbs  the  earth  will  press ; 

And  oh !  my  last  caress 

Must  feel  thee  cold,  for  a  chill  hand  is  on  thee. 
How  can  I  leave  my  boy,  so  pillow'd  there 

Upon  his  clustering  hair !" 

She  stood  beside  the  well  her  God  had  given 
To  gush  in  that  deep  wilderness,  and  bathed 
The  forehead  of  her  child  until  he  laugh'd 
In  his  reviving  happiness,  and  lisp'd 
His  infant  thought  of  gladness  at  the  sight 
Of  the  cool  plashing  of  his  mother's  hand. 


(48) 


RIZPAH  WITH  HER  SONS, 
(The  day  before  they  were  hanged  on  Gibeah.) 
"  BREAD  for  my  mother !"  said  the  voice  of  one 
Darkening  the  door  of  Rizpah.     She  look'd  up — 
And  lo !  the  princely  countenance  and  mien 
Of  dark-brow'd  Armoni.     The  eye  of  Saul — 
The  very  voice  and  presence  of  the  king — 
Limb,  port,  and  majesty, — were  present  there, 
Mock'd  like  an  apparition  in  her  son. 
Yet,  as  he  stoop'd  his  forehead  to  her  hand 
With  a  kind  smile,  a  something  of  his  mother 
Unbent  the  haughty  arching  of  his  lip, 
And,  through  the  darkness  of  the  widow's  heart 
Trembled  a  nerve  of  tenderness  that  shook 
Her  thought  of  pride  all  suddenly  to  tears. 

"  Whence  comest  thou  ?"  said  Rizpah. 

"  From  the  house 

Of  David.     In  his  gate  there  stood  a  soldier — 
This  in  his  hand.     I  pluck'd  it,  and  I  said, 
*  A  king's  son  takes  it  for  his  hungry  mother  V 
God  stay  the  famine !" 

******     AS  he  spoke,  a  step, 
Light  as  an  antelope's,  the  threshold  press'd, 
And  like  a  beam  of  light  into  the  room 
Enter'd  Mephibosheth.     What  bird  of  heaven 
Or  creature  of  the  wild — what  flower  of  earth — 


(49) 

Was  like  this  fairest  of  the  sons  of  Saul ! 
The  violet's  cup  was  harsh  to  his  blue  eye. 
Less  agile  was  the  fierce  barb's  fiery  step. 
His  voice  drew  hearts  to  him.     His  smile  was  like 
The  incarnation  of  some  blessed  dream — 
Its  joyousness  so  sunn'd  the  gazer's  eye ! 
Fair  were  his  locks.     His  snowy  teeth  divided 
A  bow  of  Love,  drawn  with  a  scarlet  thread. 
His  cheek  was  like  the  moist  heart  of  the  rose ; 
And,  but  for  nostrils  of  that  breathing  fire 
That  turns  the  lion  back,  and  limbs  as  lithe 
As  is  the  velvet  muscle  of  the  pard, 
Mephibosheth  had  been  too  fair  for  man. 

As  if  he  were  a  vision  that  would  fade, 
Rizpah  gazed  on  him.     Never,  to  her  eye, 
Grew  his  bright  form  familiar ;  but,  like  stars, 
That  seem'd  each  night  new  lit  in  a  new  heaven, 
He  was  each  morn's  sweet  gift  to  her.     She  loved 
Her  firstborn,  as  a  mother  loves  her  child, 
Tenderly,  fondly.     But  for  him — the  last — 
What  had  she  done  for  heaven  to  be  his  mother ! 
Her  heart  rose  in  her  throat  to  hear  his  voice ; 
She  look'd  at  him  forever  through  her  tears; 
Her  utterance,  when  she  spoke  to  him,  sank  down, 
As  if  the  lightest  thought  of  him  had  lain 
In  an  unfathom'd  cavern  of  her  soul. 
The  morning  light  was  part  of  him,  to  her — 
What  broke  the  day  for,  but  to  show  his  beauty  ? 
The  hours  but  measured  time  till  he  should  come ; 


(50) 

Too  tardy  sang  the  bird  when  he  was  gone  ; 

She  would  have  shut  the  flowers — and  call'd  the  star 

Back  to  the  mountain-top — and  bade  the  sun 

Pause  at  eve's  golden"  door — to  wait  for  him  f 

Was  this  a  heart  gone  wild  ? — or  is  the  love 

Of  mothers  like  a  madness  ?     Such  as  this 

Is  many  a  poor  one  in  her  humble  home, 

Who  silently  and  sweetly  sits  alone, 

Pouring  her  life  all  out  upon  her  child. 

What  cares  she  that  he  does  not  feel  how  close 

Her  heart  beats  after  his — that  all  unseen 

Are  the  fond  thoughts  that  follow  him  by  day, 

And  watch  his  sleep  like  angels  ?     And,  when  moved 

By  some  sore  needed  Providence,  he  stops 

In  his  wild  path  and  lifts  a  thought  to  heaven, 

What  cares  the  mother  that  he  does  not  see 

The  link  between  the  blessing  and  her  prayer! 

lie  who  once  wept  with  Mary — angels  keeping 
Their  unthank'd  watch — are  a  foreshadowing 
Of  what  love  is  in  heaven.     We  may  believe 
That  we  shall  know  each  other's  forms  hereafter, 
And,  in  the  bright  fields  of  the  better  land, 
Call  the  lost  dead  to  us.     Oh  conscious  heart ! 
That  in  the  lone  paths  of  this  shadowy  world 
Hast  bless'd  all  light,  however  dimly  shining, 
That  broke  upon  the  darkness  of  thy  way — 
Number  thy  lamps  of  love,  and  tell  me,  now, 
How  many  canst  thou  re-light  at  the  stars 
And  blush  not  at  their  burning  ?     One — one  only — 


O- 


(51) 

Lit  while  your  pulses  by  one  heart  kept  time, 
And  fed  with  faithful  fondness  to  your  grave — 
(Tho'  sometimes  with  a  hand  stretch'd  back  from  heaven,) 
Steadfast  thro'  all  things — near,  when  most  forgot — 
And  with  its  finger  of  unerring  truth 
Pointing  the  lost  way  in  thy  darkest  hour — 
One  lamp — thy  mother's  love — amid  the  stars 
Shall  lift  its  pure  flame  changeless,  and,  before 
The  throne  of  God,  burn  through  eternity — 
Holy — as  it  was  lit  and  lent  thee  here. 

The  hand  in  salutation  gently  raised 
To  the  bow'd  forehead  of  the  princely  boy, 
Linger'd  amid  his  locks.     "  I  sold,"  he  said, 
"  My  Lybian  barb  fcr  but  a  cake  of  meal — 
Lo !  this — my  mother !     As  I  pass'd  the  street, 
I  hid  it  in  my  mantle,  for  there  stand 
Famishing  mothers,  with  their  starving  babes, 
At  every  threshold ;  and  wild,  desperate  men 
Prowl,  with  the  eyes  of  tigers,  up  and  down, 
Watching  to  rob  those  who,  from  house  to  house, 
Beg  for  the  dying.     Fear  not  thou,  my  mother! 
Thy  sons  will  be  Elijah's  ravens  to  thee !" 

[UNFINISHED.] 


LAZARUS  AND  MARY. 

JESTTS  was  there  but  yesterday.     The  prints 
Of  his  departing  feet  were  at  the  door ; 


(52) 

His  "  Peace  be  with  you  !"  was  yet  audible 
In  the  rapt  porch  of  Mary's  charmed  ear; 
And,  in  the  low  rooms,  'twas  as  if  the  air, 
Hush'd  with  his  going  forth,  had  been  the  breath   4 
Of  angels  left  on  watch — so  conscious  still 
The  place  seem'd  of  his  presence !     Yet,  within, 
The  family  by  Jesus  loved  were  weeping, 
For  Lazarus  lay  dead. 

And  Mary  sat 

By  the  pale  sleeper.     He  was  young  to  die. 
The  countenance  whereon  the  Saviour  dwelt 
With  his  benignant  smile — the  soft  fair  lines 
Breathing  of  hope — were  still^ll  eloquent, 
Like  life  well  mock'd  in  <lffarble.     That  the  voice, 
Gone  from  those  pallid  lips,  was  heard  in  heaven, 
Toned  with  unearthly  sweetness — that  the  light, 
Quench'd  in  the  closing  of  those  stirless  lids, 
Was  veiling  before  God  its  timid  fire, 
New-lit,  and  brightening  like  a  star  at  eve — 
That  Lazarus,  her  brother,  was  in  bliss, 
Not  with  this  cold  clay  sleeping — Mary  knew. 
Her  heaviness  of  heart  was  not  for  him ! 
But  close  had  been  the  tie  by  Death  divided. 
The  intertwining  locks  of  that  bright  hair 
That  wiped  the  feet  of  Jesus — the  fair  hands 
Clasp'd  in  her  breathless  wonder  while  He  taught — 
Scarce  to  one  pulse  thrill 'd  more  in  unison, 
Than  with  one  soul  this  sister  and  her  brother 
Had  lock'd  their  lives  together.     In  this  love, 


(53) 

Hallow'd  from  stain,  the  woman's  heart  of  Mary 
Was,  with  its  rich  affections,  all  bound  up. 
Of  an  unblemish'd  beauty,  as  became 
An  office  by  archangels  fill'd  till  now, 
She  walk'd  with  a  celestial  halo  clad ; 
And  while,  to  the  Apostles'  eyes,  it  seem'd 
She  but  fulfill'd  her  errand  out  of  heaven — 
Sharing  her  low  roof  with  the  Son  of  God — 
She  was  a  woman,  fond  and  mortal  still ; 
And  the  deep  fervor,  lost  to  passion's  fire, 
Breathed  through  the  sister's  tenderness.     In  vain 
Knew  Mary,  gazing  on  that  face  of  clay, 
That  it  was  not  her  brother.     He  was  there — 
Swathed  in  that  linen  vesture  for  the  grave — 
The  same  loved  one  in  all  his  comeliness — 
And  with  him  to  the  grave  her  heart  must  go. 
What  though  he  talk'd  of  her  to  angels  ?  nay — 
Hover'd  in  spirit  near  her  ? — 'twas  that  artn, 
Palsied  in  death,  whose  fond  caress  she  knew  ! 
It  was  that  lip  of  marble  with  whose  kiss, 
Morning  and  eve,  love  hemm'd  the  sweet  day  in. 
This  was  the  form  by  the  Judean  maids 
Praised  for  its  palm-like  stature,  as  he  walk'd 
With  her  by  Kedron  in  the  eventide — 
The  dead  was  Lazarus  ?***** 
The  burial  was  over,  and  the  night 
Fell  upon  Bethany — and  morn — and  noon. 
And  comforters  and  mourners  went  their  way — 
But  death  stay'd  on!     They  had  been  oft  alone, 
When  Lazarus  had  follow'd  Christ  to  hear 


(54) 

His  teachings  in  Jerusalem ;  but  this 
Was  more  than  solitude.     The  silence  now 
Was  void  of  expectation.     Something  felt 
Always  before,  and  loved  without  a  name, — 
Joy  from  the  air,  hope  from  the  opening  door, 
Welcome  and  life  from  off  the  very  walls, — 
Seem'd  gone — and  in  the  chamber  where  he  lay 
There  was  a  fearful  and  unbreathing  hush, 
Stiller  than  night's  last  hour.     So  fell  on  Mary 
The  shadows  all  have  known,  who,  from  their  hearts, 
Have  released  friends  to  heaven.     The  parting  soul 
Spreads  wing  betwixt  the  mourner  and  the  sky ! 
As  if  its  path  lay,  from  the  tie  last  broken, 
Straight  through  the  cheering  gateway  of  the  sun  ; 
And,  to  the  eye  strain'd  after,  'tis  a  cloud 
That  bars  the  light  from  all  things. 

Now  as  Christ 

Drew  near  to  Bethany,  the  Jews  went  forth 
With  Martha,  mourning  Lazarus.     But  Mary 
Sat  in  the  house.     She  knew  the  hour  was  nigh 
When  He  would  go  again,  as  He  had  said, 
Unto  his  Father;  and  she  felt  that  He, 
Who  loved  her  brother  Lazarus  in  life, 
Had  chose  the  hour  to  bring  him  home  thro'  Death 
In  no  unkind  forgetfulness.     Alone — 
She  could  lift  up  the  bitter  prayer  to  heaven, 
"  Thy  will  be  done,  O  God  !"— but  that  dear  brother 
Had  fill'd  the  cup  and  broke  the  bread  for  Christ ; 
And  ever,  at  the  morn,  when  she  had  knelt 


(55) 

And  wash'd  those  holy  feet,  came  Lazarus 

To  bind  his  sandals  on,  and  follow  forth 

With  dropp'd  eyes,  like  an  angel,  sad  and  fair — 

Intent  upon  the  Master's  need  alone. 

Indissolubly  link'd  were  they !     And  now, 

To  go  to  meet  him — Lazarus  not  there — 

And  to  his  greeting  answer  "  It  is  well !" 

And,  without  tears,  (since  grief  would  trouble  Him 

Whose  soul  was  always  sorrowful,)  to  kneel 

And  minister  alone — her  heart  gave  way ! 

She  cover'd  up  her  face  and  turn'd  again 

To  wait  within  for  Jesus.     But  once  more 

Came  Martha,  saying,  "  Lo !  the  Lord  is  here 

And  calleth  for  thee,  Mary !"     Then  arose 

The  mourner  from  the  ground,  whereon  she  sate 

Shrouded  in  sackcloth,  and  bound  quickly  up 

The  golden  locks  of  her  dishevell'd  hair, 

And  o'er  her  ashy  garments  drew  a  veil 

Hiding  the  eyes  she  could  not  trust.     And  still, 

As  she  made  ready  to  go  forth,  a  calm 

As  in  a  dream  fell  on  her. 

At  a  fount 

Hard  by  the  sepulchre,  without  the  wall, 
Jesus  awaited  Mary.     Seated  near 
Were  the  way-worn  disciples  in  the  shade; 
But,  of  himself  forgetful,  Jesus  lean'd 
Upon  his  staff,  and  watch 'd  where  she  should  come 
To  whose  one  sorrow — but  a  sparrow's  falling — 
The  pity  that  redeem'd  a  world  could  bleed ! 


(56) 

And  as  she  came,  with  that  uncertain  step, — 

Eager,  yet  weak, — her  hands  upon  her  breast, — 

And  they  who  folio w'd  her  all  fallen  back 

To  leave  her  with  her  sacred  grief  alone, — 

The  heart  of  Christ  was  troubled.     She  drew  near, 

And  the  disciples  rose  up  from  the  fount, 

Moved  by  her  look  of  wo,  and  gather'd  round ; 

And  Mary — for  a  moment — ere  she  look'd 

Upon  the  Saviour,  stay'd  her  faltering  feet, — 

And  straighten'd  her  veil'd  form,  and  tighter  drew 

Her  clasp  upon  the  folds  across  her  breast ; 

Then,  with  a  vain  strife  to  control  her  tears, 

She  stagger'd  to  their  midst,  and  at  His  feet 

Fell  prostrate,  saying,  "  Lord  !  hadst  thou  been  here, 

My  brother  had  not  died  !"     The  Saviour  groan'd 

In  spirit,  and  stoop'd  tenderly,  and  raised 

The  mourner  from  the  ground,  and  in  a  voice, 

Broke  in  its  utterance  like  her  own,  He  said, 

"  Where  have  ye  laid  him  ?"  Then  the  Jews  who  came, 

Following  Mary,  answered  through  their  tears, 

"  Lord  !  come  and  see  !"     But  lo !  the  mighty  heart 

That  in  Gethsemane  sweat  drops  of  blood, 

Taking  for  us  the  cup  that  might  not  pass — 

The  heart  whose  breaking  cord  upon  the  cross 

Made  the  earth  tremble,  and  the  sun  afraid 

To  look  upon  his  agony — the  heart 

Of  a  lost  world's  Redeemer — overflowed, 

Touch'd  by  a  mourner's  sorrow  !     Jesus  wept. 

Calm'd  by  those  pitying  tears,  and  fondly  brooding 


(57) 

Upon  the  thought  that  Christ  so  loved  her  brother, 

Stood  Mary  there ;  but  that  lost  burden  now 

Lay  on  His  heart  who  pitied  her;  and  Christ, 

Following  slow,  and  groaning  in  Himself, 

Came  to  the  sepulchre.     It  was  a  cave, 

And  a  stone  lay  upon  it.     Jesus  said, 

"  Take  ye  away  the  stone  I"     Then  lifted  He 

His  moisten'd  eyes  to  heaven,  and  while  the  Jews 

And  the  disciples  bent  their  heads  in  awe, 

And  trembling  Mary  sank  upon  her  knees, 

The  Son  of  God  pray'd  audibly.     He  ceased, 

And  for  a  minute's  space  there  was  a  hush, 

As  if  th'  angelic  watchers  of  the  world 

Had  stay'd  the  pulses  of  all  breathing  thingsr 

To  listen  to  that  prayer.     The  face  of  Christ 

Shone  as  He  stood,  and  over  Him  there  came 

Command,  as  'twere  the  living  face  of  God, 

And  with  a  loud  voice,  He  cried,  "  Lazarus ! 

Come  forth!"     And  instantly,  bound  hand  and  foot, 

And  borne  by  unseen  angels  from  the  cave, 

He  that  was  dead  stood  with  them.     At  the  word 

Of  Jesus,  the  fear-stricken  Jews  unloosed 

The  bands  from  off  the  foldings  of  his  shroud ; 

And  Mary,  with  her  dark  veil  thrown  aside, 

Ran  to  him  swiftly,  and  cried,  "  LAZARUS  ! 

MY  BROTHER,  LAZARUS!"  and  tore  away 

The  napkin  she  had  bound  about  his  head — 

And  touch'd  the  warm  lips  with  her  fearful  hand — 

And  on  his  neck  fell  weeping.     And  while  all 

Lay  on  their  faces  p        -^,  Lazarus 


(58) 

Took  Mary  by  the  hand,  and  they  knelt  down 
And  worshipp'd  Him  who  loved  them. 


THOUGHTS  WHILE  MAKING  THE  GRAVE  OF  A  NEW-BORN 
CHILD. 

ROOM,  gentle  flowers !  my  child  would  pass  to  heaven ! 
Ye  look'd  not  for  her  yet  with  your  soft  eyes, 

0  watchful  ushers  at  Death's  narrow  door ! 
But  lo !  while  you  delay  to  let  her  forth, 
Angels,  beyond,  stay  for  her !     One  long  kiss 
From  lips  all  pale  with  agony,  and  tears, 
Wrung  after  anguish  had  dried  up  with  fire 
The  eyes  that  wept  them,  were  the  cup  of  life 
Held  as  a  welcome  to  her.     Weep  !  oh  mother ! 
But  not  that  from  this  cup  of  bitterness 

A  cherub  of  the  sky  has  turn'd  away. 

One  look  upon  thy  face  ere  thou  depart ! 
My  daughter !  It  is  soon  to  let  thee  go  I 
My  daughter!  With  thy  birth  has  gush'd  a  spring 

1  knew  not  of — filling  my  heart  with  tears, 
And  turning  with  strange  tenderness  to  thee — 
A  love— oh  God  !  it  seems  so — that  must  flow 
Far  as  thou  fleest,  and  'twixt  heaven  and  me, 
Henceforward,  be  a  bright  and  yearning  chain 
Drawing  me  after  thee !     And  so,  farewell ! 


(59) 

'Tis  a  harsh  world,  in  which  affection  knows 

No  place  to  treasure  up  its  loved  and  lost 

But  the  foul  grave!    Thou,  who  so  late  wast  sleeping 

Warm  in  the  close  fold  of  a  mother's  heart, 

Scarce  from  her  breast  a  single  pulse  receiving 

But  it  was  sent  thee  with  some  tender  thought, 

How  can  I  leave  thee — here!     Alas  for  man  ! 

The  herb  in  its  humility  may  fall 

And  waste  into  the  bright  and  genial  air, 

While  we — by  hands  that  minister'd  in  life 

Nothing  but  love  to  us — are  thrust  away — 

The  earth  flung  in  upon  our  just  cold  bosoms, 

And  the  warm  sunshine  trodden  out  forever ! 

Yet  have  I  chosen  for  thy  grave,  my  child, 
A  bank  where  I  have  lain  in  summer  hours, 
And  thought  how  little  it  would  seem  like  death 
To  sleep  amid  such  loveliness.     The  brook, 
Tripping  with  laughter  down  the  rocky  steps 
That  lead  up  to  thy  bed,  would  still  trip  on, 
Breaking  the  dread  hush  of  the  mourners  gone ; 
The  birds  are  never  silent  that  build  here, 
Trying  to  sing  down  the  more  vocal  waters  : 
The  slope  is  beautiful  with  moss  and  flowers, 
And  far  below,  seen  under  arching  leaves, 
Glitters  the  warm  sun  on  the  village  spire, 
Pointing  the  living  after  thee.     And  this 
Seems  like  a  comfort ;  and,  replacing  now 
The  flowers  that  have  made  room  for  thee,  I  go 
To  whisper  the  same  peace  to  her  who  lies — 


(60) 

Robb'd  of  her  child  and  lonely.     Tis  the  work 
Of  many  a  dark  hour,  and  of  many  a  prayer, 
To  bring  the  heart  back  from  an  infant  gone. 
Hope  must  give  o'er,  and  busy  fancy  blot 
The  images  from  all  the  silent  rooms, 
And  every  sight  and  sound  familiar  to  her 
Undo  its  sweetest  link — and  so  at  last 
The  fountain — that,  once  struck,  must  flow  forever- 
Will  hide  and  waste  in  silence.     When  the  smile 
Steals  to  her  pallid  lip  again,  and  spring 
Wakens  the  buds  above  thee,  we  will  come, 
And,  standing  by  thy  music-haunted  grave, 
Look  on  each  other  cheerfully,  and  say  : — 
A  child  that  we  have  loved  is  gone  to  heaven, 
And  ly  this  gate  of  flowers  she  pass'd  away! 


ON  THE  DEPARTURE  OF  REV.  MR.  WHITE 

FROM   HIS   PARISH,   WHEN   CHOSEN  PRESIDENT   OF  WABASH   COLLEGE. 

LEAVE  us  not,  man  of  prayer !     Like  Paul,  hast  thou 
"  Served  God  with  all  humility  of  mind," 
Dwelling  among  us,  and  "  with  many  tears," 
"  From  house  to  house,"  "  by  night  and  day  not  ceasing," 
Hast  pleaded  thy  blest  errand.     Leave  us  not ! 
Leave  us  not  now !     The  Sabbath-bell,  so  long 
Link'd  with  thy  voice — the  prelude  to  thy  prayer — 
The  call  to  us  from  heaven  to  come  with  thee 


(61) 
••. 
Into  the  house  of  God,  and,  from  thy  lips, 

Hear  what  had  fall'n  upon  thy  heart — will  sound 
Lonely  and  mournfully  when  thou  art  gone ! 
Our  prayers  are  in  thy  words — our  hope  in  Christ 
Warm'd  on  thy  lips — our  darkling  thoughts  of  God 
Followed  thy  loved  call  upward — and  so  knit 
Is  all  our  worship  with  those  outspread  hands, 
And  the  imploring  voice,  which,  well  we  knew, 
Sank  in  the  ear  of  Jesus — that,  with  thee, 
The  angel's  ladder  seems  removed  from  sight, 
And  we  astray  in  darkness!     Leave  us  not! 
Leave  not  the  dead  !     They  have  lain  calmly  down — 
Thy  comfort  in  their  ears — believing  well 
That  when  thine  own  more  holy  work  was  done, 
Thou  wouldst  lie  down  beside  them,  and  be  near 
When  the  last  trump  shall  summon,  to  fold  up 
Thy  flock  affrighted,  and,  with  that  same  voice 
Whose  whisper'd  promises  could  sweeten  death, 
Take  up  once  more  the  interrupted  strain, 
And  wait  Christ's  coming,  saying,  "  Here  am  I, 
And  those  whom  thou  hast  given  me  !"     Leave  not 
The  old,  who,  'mid  the  gathering  shadows,  cling 
To  their  accustom'd  staff,  and  know  not  how 
To  lose  thee,  and  so  near  the  darkest  hour  ! 
Leave  not  the  penitent,  whose  soul  may  be 
Deaf  to  the  strange  voice,  but  awake  to  thine  ! 
Leave  not  the  mourner  thou  hast  sooth'd — the  heart 
Turns  to  its  comforter  again !     Leave  not 
The  child  thou  hast  baptized !  another's  care 
May  not  keep  bright,  upon  the  mother's  heart, 


(62) 

• 

The  covenant  seal ;  the  infant's  ear  has  caught 
Words  it  has  strangely  ponder  d  from  thy  lips, 
And  the  remember'd  tone  may  find  again, 
And  quicken  for  the  harvest,  the  first  seed 
Sown  for  eternity  !     Leave  not  the  child  ! 

Yet  if  thou  wilt — if,  "  bound  in  spirit,"  thou 
Must  go,  and  we  shall  see  thy  face  no  more, 
"  The  will  of  God  be  done  !"     We  do  not  say 
Remember  us — thou  wilt — in  love  and  prayer  ! 
And  thou  wilt  be  remember'd — by  the  dead, 
When  the  last  trump  awakes  them — by  the  old, 
When,  of  the  "  silver  cord"  whose  strength  thou  knowest, 
The  last  thread  fails — by  the  bereaved  and  stricken, 
When  the  dark  cloud,  wherein  thou  found'st  a  spot 
Broke  by  the  light  of  mercy,  lowers  again — 
By  the  sad  mother,  pleading  for  her  child, 
In  murmurs  difficult,  since  thou  art  gone — 
By  all  thou  leavest,  when  the  Sabbath-bell 
Brings  us  together,  and  the  closing  hymn 
Hushes  our  hearts  to  pray,  and  thy  loved  voice, 
That  all  our  wants  had  grown  to,  (only  thus, 
'Twould  seem,  articulate  to  God,)  falls  not 
Upon  our  listening  ears — remember'd  thus — 
Remember'd  well — in  all  our  holiest  hours — 
Will  be  the  faithful  shepherd  we  have  lost ! 
And  ever  with  one  prayer,  for  which  our  love 
Will  find  the  pleading  words, — that  in  the  light 
Of  heaven  we  may  behold  his  face  once  more ! 


(63) 


BIRTH-DAY  VERSES. 

"  The  heart  that  we  have  lain  near  before  our  birth,  is  the  only  one  that 
cannot  forget  that  it  has  loved  us." — PHILIP  SLINGSBY. 

MY  birth-day  ! — Oh  beloved  mother ! 

My  heart  is  with  thee  o'er  the  seas. 
I  did  not  think  to  count  another 

Before  I  wept  upon  thy  knees — 
Before  this  scroll  of  absent  years 
Was  blotted  with  thy  streaming  tears. 

My  own  I  do  not  care  to  check. 

I  weep — albeit  here  alone — 
As  if  I  hung  upon  thy  neck, 

As  if  thy  lips  were  on  my  own, 
As  if  this  full,  sad  heart  of  mine, 
Were  beating  closely  upon  thine. 

Four  weary  years !     How  looks  she  now  ? 

What  light  is  in  those  tender  eyes  ? 
What  trace  of  time  has  touch'd  the  brow 

Whose  look  is  borrow 'd  of  the  skies 
That  listen  to  her  nightly  prayer? 
How  is  she  changed  since  lie  was  there 
Who  sleeps  upon  her  heart  alway — 

Whose  name  upon  her  lips  is  worn — 


(64) 

For  whom  the  night  seems  made  to  pray — 
For  whom  she  wakes  to  pray  at  morn — 
Whose  sight  is  dim,  whose  heart-strings  stir, 
Who  weeps  these  tears — to  think  of  her  ! 

I  know  not  if  my  mother's  eyes 

Would  find  me  changed  in  slighter  things ; 
.I've  wander'd  beneath  many  skies, 

And  tasted  of  some  bitter  springs ; 
And  many  leaves,  once  fair  and  gay, 
From  youth's  full  flower  have  dropp'd  away — 
But,  as  these  looser  leaves  depart, 

The  lessen'd  flower  gets  near  the  core, 
And,  when  deserted  quite,  the  heart 

Takes  closer  what  was  dear  of  yore — 
And  yearns  to  those  who  loved  it  first — 
The  sunshine  and  the  dew  by  which  its  bud  was  nursed. 

Dear  mother!  dost  thou  love  me  yet? 

Am  I  remember'd  in  my  home  ? 
When  those  I  love  for  joy  are  met, 

Does  some  one  wish  that  I  would  come? 
Thou  dost — I  am  beloved  of  these ! 

But,  as  the  schoolboy  numbers  o'er 
Night  after  night  the  Pleiades 

And  finds  the  stars  he  found  before — 
As  turns  the  maiden  oft  her  token — 

As  counts  the  miser  aye  his  gold — 
So,  till  life's  silver  cord  is  broken, 

Would  I  of  thy  fond  love  be  told. 


(65) 

My  heart  is  full,  mine  eyes  are  wet — 
Dear  mother  !  dost  thou  love  thy  long-lost  wanderer  yet  ? 

Oh !  when  the  hour  to  meet  again 

Creeps  on — and,  speeding  o'er  the  sea, 
My  heart  takes  up  its  lengthen'd  chain, 

And,  link  by  link,  draws  nearer  thee — 
When  land  is  hail'd,  and,  from  the  shore, 

Comes  off  the  blessed  breath  of  home, 
With  fragrance  from  my  mother's  door 

Of  flowers  forgotten  when  I  come — 
When  port  is  gain'd,  and,  slowly  now, 

The  old  familiar  paths  are  pass'd, 
And,  entering — unconscious  how — 

I  gaze  upon  thy  face  at  last, 
And  run  to  thee,  all  faint  and  weak, 
And  feel  thy  tears  upon  my  cheek — 

Oh  !  if  my  heart  break  not  with  joy, 
The  light  of  heaven  will  fairer  seem ; 

And  T  shall  grow  once  more  a  boy : 
And,  mother  ! — 'twill  be  like  a  dream 

That  we  were  parted  thus  for  years — 

And  once  that  we  have  dried  our  tears, 

How  will  the  days  seem  long  and  bright — 
To  meet  thee  always  with  the  morn, 

And  hear  thy  blessing  every  night — 
Thy  "dearest,"  thy  "first-born!" — 
And  be  no  more,  as  now,  in  a  strange  land,  forlorn ! 


o 

(66) 


TO  MY  MOTHER  FROM  THE  APPENINES. 

Mother!  dear  mother!  the  feelings  nurst 
As  I  hung  at  thy  bosom,  clung  round  thee  first. 
'Twas  the  earliest  link  in  love's  warm  chain — 
'Tis  the  only  one  that  will  long  remain: 
And  as  year  by  year,  and  day  by  day, 
Some  friend  still  trusted  drops  away, 
Mother !  dear  mother !  oh  dost  thou  see 
How  the  shortened  chain  brings  me  nearer  thee! 

EARLY  POEMS 

'Tis  midnight  the  lone  mountains  on — 
The  East  is  fleck'd  with  cloudy  bars, 

And,  gliding  through  them  one  by  one, 
The  moon  walks  up  her  path  of  stars — 

The  light  upon  her  placid  brow 

Received  from  fountains  unseen  now. 

And  happiness  is  mine  to-night, 

Thus  springing  from  an  unseen  fount; 

And  breast  and  brain  are  warm  with  light, 
With  midnight  round  me  on  the  mount — 

Its  rays,  like  thine,  fair  Dian,  flow 

From  far  that  Western  star  below. 

Dear  mother !  in  thy  love  I  live ; 

The  life  thou  gav'st  flows  yet  from  thee — 
And,  sun-like,  thou  hast  power  to  give 

Life  to  the  earth,  air,  sea,  for  me ! 


(67) 

Though  wandering,  as  this  moon  above, 
I'm  dark  without  thy  constant  love. 


LINES  ON  LEAVING  EUROPE. 

BRIGHT  flag  at  yonder  tapering  mast ! 

Fling  out  your  field  of  azure  blue ; 
Let  star  and  stripe  be  westward  cast, 

And  point  as  Freedom's  eagle  flew ! 
Strain  home !  oh  lithe  and  quivering  spars ! 
Point  home,  my  country's  flag  of  stars ! 

The  wind  blows  fair !  the  vessel  feels 

The  pressure  of  the  rising  breeze, 
And,  swiftest  of  a  thousand  keels, 

She  leaps  to  the  careering  seas ! 
Oh,  fair,  fair  cloud  of  snowy  sail, 

In  whose  white  breast  I  seem  to  lie, 
How  oft,  when  blew  this  eastern  gale, 

I've  seen  your  semblance  in  the  sky, 
And  long'd  with  breaking  heart  to  flee 
On  cloud-like  pinions  o'er  the  sea ! 

Adieu,  oh  lands  of  fame  and  eld ! 

I  turn  to  watch  our  foamy  track, 
And  thoughts  with  which  I  first  beheld 

Yon  clouded  line,  come  hurrying  back; 


(68) 

My  lips  are  dry  with  vague  desire, — 
My  cheek  once  more  is  hot  with  joy — 

My  pulse,  my  brain,  my  soul  on  fire  ! — 
Oh,  what  has  changed  that  traveller-boy! 

As  leaves  the  ship  this  dying  foam, 
His  visions  fade  behind — his  weary  heart  speeds  home ! 

Adieu,  oh  soft  and  southern  shore, 

Where  dwelt  the  stars  long  miss'd  in  heaven — 
Those  forms  of  beauty  seen  no  more, 

Yet  once  to  Art's  rapt  vision  given ! 
Oh,  still  th'  enamor'd  sun  delays, 

And  pries  through  fount  and  crumbling  fane, 
To  win  to  his  adoring  gaze 

Those  children  of  the  sky  again ! 
Irradiate  beauty,  such  as  never 

That  light  on  other  earth  hath  shone, 
Hath  made  this  land  her  home  forever ; 

And  could  I  live  for  this  alone — 
Were  not  my  birthright  brighter  far 

Than  such  voluptuous  slaves,  can  be — 
Held  not  the  West  one  glorious  star 

New-born  and  blazing  for  the  free — 
Soar'd  not  to  heaven  our  eagle  yet — 
Rome,  with  her  Helot  sons,  should  teach  me  to  forget ! 

Adieu,  oh  fatherland !     I  see 

Your  white  cliffs  on  th'  horizon's  rim, 

And  though  to  freer  skies  I  flee, 

My  heart  swells,  and  my  eyes  are  dim  ! 


(69) 

As  knows  the  dove  the  task  you  give  her, 

When  loosed  upon  a  foreign  shore — 
As  spreads  the  rain-drop  in  the  river 

In  which  it  may  have  flow'd  before — 
To  England,  over  vale  and  mountain, 

My  fancy  flew  from  climes  more  fair — 
My  blood,  that  knew  its  parent  fountain, 

Ran  warm  and  fast  in  England's  air. 

Dear  mother !  in  thy  prayer,  to-night, 

There  come  new  words  and  warmer  tears ! 
On  long,  long  darkness  breaks  the  light — 

Comes  home  the  loved,  the  lost  for  years  I 
Sleep  safe,  oh  wave-worn  mariner ! 

Fear  not,  to-night,  or  storm  or  sea! 
The  ear  of  heaven  bends  low  to  herf 

He  comes  to  shore  who  sails  with  me ! 
The  spider  knows  the  roof  unriven, 

While  swings  his  web,  though  lightnings  blaze — 
And  by  a  thread  still  fast  on  heaven, 

I  know  my  mother  lives  and  prays  ! 

Dear  mother  !  when  our  lips  can  speak — 

When  first  our  tears  will  let  us  see — 
When  I  can  gaze  upon  thy  cheek, 

And  thou,  with  thy  dear  eyes,  on  me — 
'Twill  be  a  pastime  little  sad 

To  trace  what  weight  Time's  heavy  fingers 
Upon  each  other's  forms  have  had — 

For  all  may  flee,  so  feeling  lingers ! 


(70) 

But  there's  a  change,  beloved  mother! 

To  stir  far  deeper  thoughts  of  thine ; 
I  come — but  with  me  comes  another 

To  share  the  heart  once  only  mine ! 
Thou,  on  whose  thoughts,  when  sad  and  lonely, 

One  star  arose  in  memory's  heaven — 
Thou,  who  hast  watch'd  one  treasure  only— 

Water'd  one  flower  with  tears  at  even — 
Room  in  thy  heart !     The  hearth  she  left 

Is  darken'd  to  lend  light  to  ours ! 
There  are  bright  flowers  of  care  bereft, 

And  hearts — that  languish  more  than  flowers  ! 
She  was  their  light — their  very  air — 
Room,  mother !   in  thy  heart !   place  for  her  in  thy 

prayer ! 


A  TRUE  INCIDENT. 

UPON  a  summer's  morn,  a  southern  mother 

Sat  at  the  curtain'd  window  of  an  inn. 

She  rested  from  long  travel,  and  with  hand 

Upon  her  cheek  in  tranquil  happiness, 

Look'd  where  the  busy  travellers  went  and  came. 

And,  like  the  shadows  of  the  swallows  flying 

Over  the  bosom  of  unruffled  water, 

Pass'd  from  her  thoughts  all  objects,  leaving  there, 

As  in  the  water's  breast,  a  mirror'd  heaven — 


(71) 

For,  in  the  porch  beneath  her,  to  and  fro, 

A  nurse  walk'd  singing  with  her  babe  in  arms. 

And  many  a  passer-by  look'd  on  the  child 

And  praised  its  wondrous  beauty,  but  still  on 

The  old  nurse  troll'd  her  lullaby,  and  still, 

Blest  through  her  depths  of  soul  by  light  there  shining, 

The  mother  in  her  revery  mused  on. 

But  lo !  another  traveller  alighted ! 

And  now,  no  more  indifferent  or  calm, 

The  mother's  breath  comes  quick,  and  with  the  blood 

Warm  in  her  cheek  and  brow,  she  murmurs  low, 

"  Now,  God  be  praised !  I  am  no  more  alone 

In  knowing  I've  an  angel  for  my  child, — 

Chance  he  to  look  on't  only !"     With  a  smile — 

The  tribute  of  a  beauty-loving  heart 

To  things  from  God  new-moulded — would  have  pass'd 

The  poet,  as  the  infant  caught  his  eye ; 

But  suddenly  he  turn'd,  and  with  his  hand 

Upon  the  nurse's  arm,  he  stay'd  her  steps, 

And  gazed  upon  her  burthen.     'Twas  a  child 

In  whose  large  eyes  of  blue  there  shone,  indeed, 

Something  to  waken  wonder.     Never  sky 

In  noontide  depth,  or  softly-breaking  dawn — 

Never  the  dew  in  new-born  violet's  cup, 

Lay  so  entranced  in  purity !     Not  calm, 

With  the  mere  hush  of  infancy  at  rest, 

The  ample  forehead,  but  serene  with  thought ; 

And  by  the  rapt  expression  of  the  lips, 

They  seem'd  scarce  still  from  a  cherubic  hymn; 

And  over  all  its  countenance  there  breathed 


(72) 

Benignity,  majestic  as  we  dream 
Angels  wear  ever,  before  God.     With  gaze 
Earnest  and  mournful,  and  his  eyelids  warm 
With  tears  kept  back,  the  poet  kiss'd  the  child ; 
And  chasten'd  at  his  heart,  as  having  pass'd 
Close  to  an  angel,  went  upon  his  way. 

Soon  after,  to  the  broken  choir  in  heaven 
This  cherub  was  recall'd,  and  now  the  mother 
Bethought  her,  in  her  anguish,  of  the  bard — 
(Herself  a  far-off  stranger,  but  his  heart 
Familiar  to  the  world,) — and  wrote  to  tell  him, 
The  angel  he  had  recognised  that  morn, 
Had  fled  to  bliss  again.     The  poet  well 
Remember'd  that  child's  ministry  to  him; 
And  of  the  only  fountain  that  he  knew 
For  healing,  he  sought  comfort  for  the  mother. 
And  thus  he  wrote  : — 

Mourn  not  for  the  child  from  thy  tenderness  riven, 
Ere  stain  on  its  purity  fell  f 

To  thy  questioning  heart,  lo  !  an  answer  from  heaven  : 

"  Is   IT  WELL   WITH  THE   CHILD  ?"     "  IT   IS   WELL  !" 


THE  MOTHER  TO  HER  CHILD. 

THEY  tell  me  thou  art  come  from  a  far  world, 
Babe  of  my  bosom  !  that  these  little  arms, 


(73) 

Whose  restlessness  is  like  the  spread  of  wings, 
Move  with  the  memory  of  flights  scarce  o'er — 
That  through  these  fringed  lids  we  see  the  soul 
Steep'd  in  the  blue  of  its  remember'd  home  ; 
And  while  thou  sleep'st  come  messengers,  they  say, 
Whispering  to  thee — and  'tis  then  I  see 
Upon  thy  baby  lips  that  smile  of  heaven  f 

And  what  is  thy  far  errand,  my  fair  child  ? 
Why  away,  wandering  from  a  home  of  bliss, 
To  find  thy  way  through  darkness  home  again  ? 
Wert  thou  an  untried  dweller  in  the  sky  ? 
Is  there,  betwixt  the  cherub  that  thou  wert, 
The  cherub  and  the  angel  thou  mayst  be, 
A  life's  probation  in  this  sadder  world  ? 
Art  thou  with  memory  of  two  things  only, 
Music  and  light,  left  upon  earth  astray, 
And,  by  the  watchers  at  the  gate  of  heaven, 
Look'd  for  with  fear  and  trembling? 

God !  who  gavest 

Into  my  guiding  hand  this  wanderer, 
To  lead  her  through  a  world  whose  darkling  paths 
I  tread  with  steps  so  faltering — leave  not  me 
To  bring  her  to  the  gates  of  heaven,  alone  ! 
I  feel  my  feebleness.     Let  these  stay  on — 
The  angels  who  now  visit  her  in  dreams  ! 
Bid  them  be  near  her  pillow  till  in  death 
The  closed  eyes  look  upon  Thy  face  once  more ! 
And  let  the  light  and  music,  which  the  world 
Borrows  of  heaven,  and  which  her  infant  sense 
Hails  with  sweet  recognition,  be  to  her 


(74) 

A  voice  to  call  her  upward,  and  a  lamp 
To  lead  her  steps  unto  Thee  ! 


A  THOUGHT  OVER  A  CRADLE. 

I  SADDEN  when  thou  smilest  to  my  smile, 
Child  of  my  love !     I  tremble  to  believe 
That  o'er  the  mirror  of  that  eye  of  blue 
The  shadow  of  my  heart  will  always  pass  ; — 
A  heart  that,  from  its  struggle  with  the  world, 
Comes  nightly  to  thy  guarded  cradle  home, 
And,  careless  of  the  staining  dust  it  brings, 
Asks  for  its  idol !     Strange,  that  flowers  of  earth 
Are  visited  by  every  air  that  stirs, 
And  drink  in  sweetness  only,  while  the  child 
That  shuts  within  its  breast  a  bloom  for  heaven, 
May  take  a  blemish  from  the  breath  of  love, 
And  bear  the  blight  forever. 

I  have  wept 

With  gladness  at  the  gift  of  this  fair  child ! 
My  life  is  bound  up  in  her.     But,  oh  God ! 
Thou  know'st  how  heavily  my  heart  at  times 
Bears  its  sweet  burthen  ;  and  if  thou  hast  given 
To  nurture  such  as  mine  this  spotless  flower, 
To  bring  it  unpolluted  unto  thee, 
Take  thou  its  love,  I  pray  thee  !     Give  it  light — 
Though,  following  the  sun,  it  turn  from  me  ! — 


(75) 

But,  by  the  chord  thus  wrung,  and  by  the  light 

Shining  about  her,  draw  me  to  my  child ! 

And  link  us  close,  oh  God,  when  near  to  heaven ! 


THIRTY-FIVE. 
"  The  years  of  a  man's  life  are  threescore  and  ten.' 

OH,  weary  heart !  thou'rt  half-way  home ! 

We  stand  on  life's  meridian  height — 
As  far  from  childhood's  morning  come, 

As  to  the  grave's  forgetful  night. 
Give  Youth  and  Hope  a  parting  tear — 

Look  onward  with  a  placid  brow — 
Hope  promised  but  to  bring  us  here, 

And  Reason  takes  the  guidance  now — 
One  backward  look — the  last — the  last ! 
One  silent  tear — for  Youth  is  past ! 

Who  goes  with  Hope  and  Passion  back? 

Who  comes  with  me  and  Memory  on? 
Oh,  lonely  looks  the  downward  track — 

Joy's  music  hush'd — Hope's  roses  gone! 
To  Pleasure  and  her  giddy  troop 

Farewell,  without  a  sigh  or  tear! 
But  heart  gives  way,  and  spirits  droop, 

To  think  that  Love  may  leave  us  here! 


(76) 

Have  we  no  charm  when  Youth  is  flown — 
Midway  to  death  left  sad  and  lone! 

Yet  stay ! — as  'twere  a  twilight  star 

That  sends  its  thread  across  the  wave, 
I  see  a  brightening  light,  from  far, 

Steal  down  a  path  beyond  the  grave  ! 
And  now — bless  God ! — its  golden  line 

Comes  o'er — and  lights  my  shadowy  way — 
And  shows  the  dear  hand  clasp'd  in  mine ! 
But,  list  what  those  sweet  voices  say  I 
The  better  land's  in  sight, 
And,  by  its  chastening  light, 
All  love  from  life's  midway  is  driven, 
Save  hers  whose  clasped  hand  will  bring  thee  on  to  heaven  ! 


~f    CONTEMPLATION. 

"  THEY  are  all  up— the  innumerable  stars — 

And 'hold  their  place  in  heaven.     My  eyes  have  been 

Searching  the  pearly  depths  through  which  they  spring 

Like  beautiful  creations,  till  I  feel  *• 

As  if  it  were  a  new  and  perfect  world, 

Waiting  in  silence  for  the  word  of  God 

To  breathe  it  into  motion.     There  they  stand, 

Shining  in  order,  like  a  living  .hymn 

Written  in  light,  awaking  at  the  breath 


(77) 

Of  the  celestial  dawn,  and  praising  Him 

Who  made  them,  with  the  harmony  of  spheres. 

I  would  I  had  an  eagle's  ear  to  list 

That  melody.     I  would  that  I  might  float 

Up  in  that  boundless  element,  and  feel 

Its  ravishing  vibrations,  like  the  pulse 

Beating  in  heaven !     My  spirit  is  athirst 

For  music — rarer  music!     I  would  bathe 

My  soul  in  a  serener  atmosphere 

Than  this ;  I  long  to  mingle  with  the  flock 

Led  by  the  'living  waters,7  and  to  stray 

In  the  '  green  pastures'  of  the  better  land ! 

When  wilt  thou  break,  dull  fetter!     When  shall  I 

Gather  my  wings,  and  like  a  rushing  thought 

Stretch  onward,  star  by  star,  up  into  heaven  !" 

Thus  mused  Alethe.     She  was  one  to  whom 

Life  had  been  like  the  witching  of  a -dream,. 

Of  an  untroubled  sweetness.     She  was  born  ' 

Of  a  high  race,  and  lay  upon  the  knee, 

With  her  soft  eyes  perusing  listlessly 

The  fretted  roof,  or,  on  Mosaic  floors, 

Grasp'd  at  the  tesselated  squares  inwrought 

With  metals  curiously.     Her  childhood  pass'd 

Like  faery — amid  fountains  and  green  haunts — 

Trying  her  Iktle  feet  upon  a  lawn 

Of  velvet  evenness,  and  hiding  flowers 

In  her  sweet  breast,  as  if  it  were  a  fair 

And  pearly  altar  to  crush  incense  on. 

Her  youth — oh  !  that  was  queenly !    She  was  like 

A  dream  of  poetry  that  may  not  be 


© 


(78) 

Written  or  told— exceeding  beautiful ! 

And  so  came  worshippers ;  and  rank  bow'd  down 

And  breathed  upon  her  heart-strings  with  the  breath 

Of  pride,  and  bound  her  forehead  gorgeously 

With  dazzling  scorn,  and  gave  unto  her  step 

A  majesty — as  if  she  trod  the  sea, 

And  the  proud  waves,  unbidden,  lifted  her! 

And  so  she  grew  to  woman — her  mere  look 

Strong  as  a  monarch's  signet,  and  her  hand 

The  ambition  of  a  kingdom.     From  all  this 

Turn'd  her  high  heart  away!     She  had  a  mind, 

Deep,  and  immortal,  and  it  would  not  feed 

On  pageantry.     She  thirsted  for  a  spring 

Of  a  serener  element,  and  drank 

Philosophy,  and  for  a  little  while 

She  was  allay'd, — till,  presently,  it  turn'd 

Bitter  within  her,  and  her  spirit  grew 

Faint  for  undying  water.     Then  she  came 

To  the  pure  fount  of  God,  and  is  athirst 

No  more — save  when  the  fever  of  the  world 

Falleth  upon  her,  she  will  go,  sometimes, 

Out  in  the  star-light  quietness,  and  breathe 

A  holy  aspiration  after  Heaven. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  MISSIONARY. 

How  beautiful  it  is  for  man  to  die 
Upon  the  walls  of  Zion !  to  be  call'd, 


(79) 

Like  a  watch-worn  and  weary  sentinel, 
To  put  his  armor  off,  and  rest — in  heaven  ! 

The  sun  was  setting  on  Jerusalem, 

The  deep  blue  sky  had  not  a  cloud,  and  light 

Was  pouring  on  the  dome  of  Omar's  mosque, 

Like  molten  silver.     Every  thing  was  fair; 

And  beauty  hung  upon  the  painted  fanes; 

Like  a  grieved  spirit,  lingering  ere  she  gave 

Her  wing  to  air,  for  heaven.     The  crowds  of  men 

Were  in  the  busy  streets,  and  nothing  look'd 

Like  wo,  or  suffering,  save  one  small  train 

Bearing  the  dead  to  burial.     It  pass'd  by, 

And  left  no  trace  upon  the  busy  throng. 

The  sun  was  just  as  beautiful ;  the  shout 

Of  joyous  revelry,  and  the  low  hum 

Of  stirring  thousands  rose  as  constantly ! 

Life  look'd  as  winning ;  and  the  earth  and  sky, 

And  every  thing  seem'd  strangely  bent  to  make 

A  contrast  to  that  comment  upon  life. 

How  wonderful  it  is  that  human  pride 

Can  pass  that  touching  moral  as  it  does — 

Pass  it  so  frequently,  in  all  the  force 

Of  mournful  and  most  simple  eloquence — 

And  learn  no  lesson !     They  bore  on  the  dead, 

With  the  slow  step  of  sorrow,  troubled  not 

By  the  rude  multitude,  save,  here  and  there, 

A  look  of  vague  inquiry,  or  a  curse 

Half-mutter'd  by  some  haughty  Turk  whose  sleeve 

Had  touch'd  the  tassel  of  the  Christian's  pall. 


(80) 

And  Israel  too  pass'd  on — the  trampled  Jew ! 

Israel ! — who  made  Jerusalem  a  throne 

For  the  wide  world — pass'd  on  as  carelessly ; 

Giving  no  look  of  interest  to  tell 

The  shrouded  dead  was  any  thing  to  her. 

Oh  that  they  would  be  gather'd  as  a  brood 

Is  gather'd  by  a  parent's  sheltering  wings ! — 

They  laid  him  down  with  strangers;  for  his  home 

Was  with  the  setting  sun,  and  they  who  stood 

And  look'd  so  steadfastly  upon  his  grave, 

Were  not  his  kindred  ;  but  they  found  him  there, 

And  loved  him  for  his  ministry  of  Christ. 

He  had  died  young.     But  there  are  silver'd  heads, 

Whose  race  of  duty  is  less  nobly  run. 

His  heart  was  with  Jerusalem ;  and  strong 

As  was  a  mother's  love,  and  the  sweet  ties 

Religion  makes  so  beautiful  at  home, 

He  flung  them  from  him  in  his  eager  race, 

And  sought  the  broken  people  of  his  God, 

To  preach  to  them  of  JESUS.     There  was  one, 

Who  was  his  friend  and  helper.     One  who  went 

And  knelt  beside  him  at  the  sepulchre 

Where  Jesus  slept,  to  pray  for  Israel. 

They  had  one  spirit,  and  their  hearts  were  knit 

With  more  than  human  love.      God  call'd  him  home, 

And  he  of  whom  I  speak  stood  up  alone, 

And  in  his  broken-heartedness  wrought  on 

Until  his  Master  call'd  him. 

Oh,  is  it  not  a  noble  thing  to  die 


(81) 

As  dies  the  Christian,  with  his  armor  on ! — 
What  is  the  hero's  clarion,  though  its  blast 
Ring  with  the  mastery  of  a  world,  to  this  ? — 
What  are  the  searching  victories  of  mind — 
The  lore  of  vanish'd  ages  ? — What  are  all 
The  trumpetings  of  proud  humanity, 
To  the  short  history  of  him  who  made 
His  sepulchre  beside  the  King  of  kings  ? 


ON  THE  PICTURE  OF  A  "CHILD  TIRED  OF  PLAY." 

TIRED  of  play !     Tired  of  play  ! 

What  hast  thou  done  this  livelong  day !      t 

The  birds  are  silent,  and  so  is  the  bee  ; 

The  sun  is  creeping  up  steeple  and  tree ; 

The  doves  have  flown  to  the  sheltering  eaves, 

And  the  nests  are  dark  with  the  drooping  leaves; 

Twilight  gathers,  and  day  is  done — 

How  hast  thou  spent  it — restless  one  ! 

Playing  ?     But  what  hast  thou  done  beside 
To  tell  thy  mother  at  eventide? 
What  promise  of  morn  is  left  unbroken  ? 
What  kind  word  to  thy  playmate  spoken  ? 
Whom  hast  thou  pitied,  and  whom  forgiven  ? 
How  with  thy  faults  has  duty  striven? 


(82) 

What  hast  thou  learn'd  by  field  and  hill, 
By  greenwood  path,  and  by  singing  rill  ? 

There  will  come  an  eve  to  a  longer  day, 

That  will  find  thee  tired — but  not  of  play ! 

And  thou  wilt  lean,  as  thou  leanest  now, 

With  drooping  limbs  and  aching  brow, 

And  wish  the  shadows  would  faster  creep, 

And  long  to  go  to  thy  quiet  sleep. 

Well  were  it  then  if  thine  aching  brow 

Were  as  free  from  sin  and  shame  as  now ! 

Well  for  thee%  if  thy  lip  could  tell 

A  tale  like  this,  of  a  day  spent  well. 

If  thine  open  hand  hath  relieved  distress — 

If  thy  pity  hath  sprung  to  wretchedness — 

If  thou  hast  forgiven  the  sore  offence, 

And  humbled  thy  heart  with  penitence — 

If  Nature's  voices  have  spoken  to  thee 

With  her  holy  meanings  eloquently — 

If  every  creature  hath  won  thy  love, 

From  the  creeping  worm  to  the  brooding  dove — 

If  never  a  sad,  low-spoken  word 

Hath  plead  with  thy  human  heart  unheard — 

Then,  when  the  night  steals  on,  as  now, 

It  will  bring  relief  to  thine  aching  brow, 

And,  with  joy  and  peace  at  the  thought  of  rest, 

Thou  wilt  sink  to  sleep  on  thy  mother's  breast. 


(83) 


A  CHILD'S  FIRST  IMPRESSION  OF  A  STAR- 
SHE  had  been  told  that  God  made  all  the  stars 
That  twinkled  up  in  heaven,  and  now  she  stood 
Watching  the  coming  of  the  twilight  on, 
As  if  it  were  a  new  and  perfect  world, 
And  this  were  its  first  eve.     She  stood  alone 
By  the  low  window,  with  the  silken  lash 
Of  her  soft  eye  upraised,  and  her  sweet  mouth 
Half  parted  with  the  new  and  strange  delight 
Of  beauty  that  she  could  not  comprehend, 
And  had  not  seen  before.     The  purple  folds 
Of  the  low  sunset  clouds,  and  the  blue  sky 
That  look'd  so  still  and  delicate  above, 
Fill'd  her  young  heart  with  gladness,  and  the  eve 
Stole  on  with  its  deep  shadows,  and  she  still 
Stood  looking  at  the  west  with  that  half  smile, 
As  if  a  pleasant  thought  were  at  her  heart. 
Presently,  in  the  edge  of  the  last  tint 
Of  sunset,  where  the  blue  was  melted  in 
To  the  faint  golden  mellowness,  a  star 
Stood  suddenly.     A  laugh  of  wild  delight 
Burst  from  her  lips,  and  putting  up  her  hands, 
Her  simple  thought  broke  forth  expressively — 
"  Father !  dear  father  !  God  has  made  a  star !" 


(84) 


ON  WITNESSING  A  BAPTISM. 

SHE  stood  up  in  the  meekness  of  a  heart 

Resting  on  God,  and  held  her  fair  young  child 

Upon  her  bosom,  with  its  gentle  eyes 

Folded  in  sleep,  as  if  its  soul  had  gone 

To  whisper  the  baptismal  vow  in  heaven. 

The  prayer  went  up  devoutly,  and  the  lips 

Of  the  good  man  glow'd  fervently  with  faith 

That  it  would  be,  even  as  he  had  pray'd, 

And  the  sweet  child  be  gather'd  to  the  fold 

Of  Jesus.     As  the  holy  words  went  on 

Her  lips  moved  silently,  and  tears,  fast  tears, 

Stole  from  beneath  her  lashes,  and  upon 

The  forehead  of  the  beautiful  child  lay  soft 

With  the  baptismal  water.     Then  I  thought 

That,  to  the  eye  of  God,  that  mother's  tears 

Would  be  a  deeper  covenant — which  sin 

And  the  temptations  of  the  world,  and  death, 

Would  leave  unbroken — and  that  she  would  know 

In  the  clear  light  of  heaven,  how  very  strong 

The  prayer  which  press'd  them  from  her  heart  had  been 

In  leading  its  young  spirit  up  to  God. 


(85) 


REVERIE  AT  GLENMARY. 

I  HAVE  enough,  O  God !     My  heart  to-night 
Runs  over  with  its  fulness  of  content ; 
And  as  I  look  out  on  the  fragrant  stars, 
And  from  the  beauty  of  the  night  take  in 
My  priceless  portion — yet  myself  no  more 
Than  in  the  universe  a  grain  of  sand — 
I  feel  His  glory  who  could  make  a  world, 
Yet  in  the  lost  depths  of  the  wilderness 
Leave  not  a  flower  unfmish'd ! 

•A  1.  i          -.  "  '    \^'  -        ^  •  ,A  *'   -  '.     0    -      .*       '        '."    ''• 

Rich,  though  poor ! 

My  low-roofd  cottage  is  this  hour  a  heaven. 
Music  is  in  it — and  the  song  she  sings, 
That  sweet- voiced  wife  of  mine,  arrests  the  ear 
Of  my  young  child  awake  upon  her  knee  ; 
And  with  his  calm  eye  on  his  master's  face, 
My  noble  hound  lies  couchant — and  all  here — 
All  in  this  little  home,  yet  boundless  heaven — 
Are,  in  such  love  as  I  have  power  to  give, 
Blessed  to  overflowing. 

Thou,  who  look'st 

Upon  my  brimming  heart  this  tranquil  eve, 
Knowest  its  fulness,  as  thou  dost  the  dew 
Sent  to  the  hidden  violet  by  Thee ; 


(86) 

And,  as  that  flower,  from  its  unseen  abode, 
Sends  its  sweet  breath  up,  duly,  to  the  sky, 
Changing  its  gift  to  incense,  so,  oh  God  ! 
May  the  sweet  drops  that  to  my  humble  cup 
Find  their  far  way  from  heaven,  send  up,  to  Thee, 
Fragrance  at  thy  throne  welcome ! 


TO  A  CITY  PIGEON. 

STOOP  to  my  window,  thou  beautiful  dove! 
Thy  daily  visits  have  touch'd  my  love. 
I  watch  thy  coming,  and  list  the  note 
That  stirs  so  low  in  thy  mellow  throat, 

And  my  joy  is  high 
To  catch  the  glance  of  thy  gentle  eye. 

Why  dost  thou  sit  on  the  heated  eaves, 

And  forsake  the  wood  with  its  freshen'd  leaves? 

Why  dost  thou  haunt  the  sultry  street, 

When  the  paths  of  the  forest  are  cool  and  sweet  ? 

How  canst  thou  bear 
This  noise  of  people — this  sultry  air  ? 

Thou  alone  of  the  feather'd  race 

Dost  look  unscared  on  the  human  face; 

Thou  alone,  with  a  wing  to  flee, 

Dost  love  with  man  in  his  haunts  to  be ; 


(87) 

And  the  "gentle  dove" 
Has  become  a  name  for  trust  and  love. 

A  holy  gift  is  thine,  sweet  bird ! 
Thou'rt  named  with  childhood's  earliest  word ! 
Thou'rt  link'd  with  all  that  is  fresh  and  wild 
In  the  prison'd  thoughts  of  the  city  child ; 

And  thy  glossy  wings 
Are  its  brightest  image  of  moving  things. 

It  is  no  light  chance.     Thou  art  set  apart, 
Wisely  by  Him  who  has  tamed  thy  heart, 
To  stir  the  love  for  the  bright  and  fair 
That  else  were  seal'd  in  this  crowded  air ; 

I  sometimes  dream 
Angelic  rays  from  thy  pinions  stream. 

Come  then,  ever,  when  daylight  leaves 
The  page  I  read,  to  my  humble  eaves, 
And  wash  thy  breast  in  the  hollow  spout, 
And  murmur  thy  low  sweet  music  out! 

I  hear  and  see 
Lessons  of  heaven,  sweet  bird,  in  thee  ! 


THE  BELFRY  PIGEON. 

ON  the  cross-beam  under  the  Old  South  bell 
The  nest  of  a  pigeon  is  builded  well. 


(88) 

In  summer  and  winter  that  bird  is  there, 
Out  and  in  with  the  morning  air : 
I  love  to  see  him  track  the  street, 
With  his  wary  eye  and  active  feet; 
And  I  often  watch  him  as  he  springs, 
Circling  the  steeple  with  easy  wings, 
Till  across  the  dial  his  shade  has  pass'd, 
And  the  belfry  edge  is  gain'd  at  last. 
'Tis  a  bird  I  love,  with  its  brooding  note, 
And  the  trembling  throb  in  its  mottled  throat; 
There's  a  human  look  in  its  swelling  breast, 
And  the  gentle  curve  of  its  lowly  crest ; 
And  I  often  stop  with  the  fear  I  feel — 
He  runs  so  close  to  the  rapid  wheel. 

Whatever  is  rung  on  that  noisy  bell — 

Chime  of  the  hour  or  funeral  knell — 

The  dove  in  the  belfry  must  hear  it  well. 

When  the  tongue  swings  out  to  the  midnight  moon — 

When  the  sexton  cheerly  rings  for  noon — 

When  the  clock  strikes  clear  at  morning  light — 

When  the  child  is  waked  with  "  nine  at  night" — 

When  the  chimes  play  soft  in  the  Sabbath  air, 

Filling  the  spirit  with  tones  of  prayer — 

Whatever  tale  in  the  bell  is  heard, 

He  broods  on  his  folded  feet  unstirr'd, 

Or.  rising  half  in  his  rounded  nest, 

He  takes  the  time  to  smooth  his  breast, 

Then  drops  again  with  filmed  eyes, 

And  sleeps  as  the  last  vibration  dies. 


(89) 

Sweet  bird  !  I  would  that  I  could  be 
A  hermit  in  the  crowd  like  thee ! 
With  wings  to  fly  to  wood  and  glen, 
Thy  lot,  like  mine,  is  cast  with  men; 
And  daily,  with  unwilling  feet, 
I  tread,  like  thee,  the  crowded  street; 
But,  unlike  me,  when  day  is  o'er, 
Thou  canst  dismiss  the  world  and  soar, 
Or,  at  a  half- felt  wish  for  rest, 
Canst  smooth  the  feathers  on  thy  breast, 
And  drop,  forgetful,  to  thy  nest. 


SATURDAY  AFTERNOON. 
[Written  for  a  Picture.} 

I  LOVE  to  look  on  a  scene  like  this, 

Of  wild  and  careless  play, 
And  persuade  myself  that  I  am  not  old, 

And  my  locks  are  not  yet  gray ; 
For  it  stirs  the  blood  in  an  old  man's  heart, 

And  makes  his  pulses  fly, 
To  catch  the  thrill  of  a  happy  voice, 

And  the  light  of  a  pleasant  eye. 

I  have  walk'd  the  world  for  fourscore  years ; 
And  they  say  that  I  am  old, 


(90) 

That  my  heart  is  ripe  for  the  reaper,  Death, 
And  my  years  are  well-nigh  told. 

It  is  very  true  ;  it  is  very  true ; 
I'm  old,  and  "  I  'bide  my  time :" 

But  my  heart  will  leap  at  a  scene  like  this, 
And  I  half  renew  my  prime. 

Play  on,  play  on ;  I  am  with  you  there, 

In  the  midst  of  your  merry  ring ; 
I  can  feel  the  thrill  of  the  daring  jump, 

And  the  rush  of  the  breathless  swing. 
I  hide  with  you  in  the  fragrant  hay, 

And  I  whoop  the  smother'd  call, 
And  my  feet  slip  up  on  the  seedy  floor, 

And  I  care  not  for  the  fall. 

I  am  willing  to  die  when  my  time  shall  come, 

And  I  shall  be  glad  to  go; 
For  the  world  at  best  is  a  weary  place, 

And  my  pulse  is  getting  low  ; 
But  the  grave  is  dark,  and  the  heart  will  fail 

In  treading  its  gloomy  way ; 
And  it  wiles  my  heart  from  its  dreariness, 

To  see  the  young  so  gay. 


(91) 


THE  SABBATH. 

IT  was  a  pleasant  morning,  in  the  time 

When  the  leaves  fall — and  the  bright  sun  shone  out 

As  when  the  morning  stars  first  sang  together — 

So  quietly  and  calmly  fell  his  light 

Upon  a  world  at  rest.     There  was  no  leaf 

In  motion,  and  the  loud  winds  slept,  and  all 

Was  still.     The  lab'ring  herd  was  grazing 

Upon  the  hill-side  quietly — uncall'd 

By  the  harsh  voice  of  man ;  and  distant  sound, 

Save  from  the  murmuring  waterfall,  came  not 

As  usual  on  the  ear.     One  hour  stole  on, 

And  then  another  of  the  morning,  calm 

And  still  as  Eden  ere  the  birth  of  man. 

And  then  broke  in  the  Sabbath  chime  of  bells — 

And  the  old  man,  and  his  descendants,  went 

Together  to  the  house  of  God.     I  join'd 

The  well-apparell'd  crowd.     The  holy  man 

Rose  solemnly,  and  breathed  the  prayer  of  faith — 

And  the  gray  saint,  just  on  the  wing  for  heaven — 

And  the  fair  maid — and  the  bright-hair'd  young  man — 

And  child  of  curling  locks,  just  taught  to  close 

The  lash  of  its  blue  eye  the  while ; — all  knelt 

In  attitude  of  prayer — and  then  the  hymn, 

Sincere  in  its  low  melody,  went  up 

To  worship  God. 


(92) 

The  white-hair'd  pastor  rose 
And  look'd  upon  his  flock — and  with  an  eye 
That  told  his  interest,  and  voice  that  spoke 
In  tremulous  accents,  eloquence  like  Paul's, 
He  lent  Isaiah's  fire  to  the  truths 
Of  revelation,  and  persuasion  came 
Like  gushing  waters  from  his  lips,  till  hearts 
Unused  to  bend  were  soften'd,  and  the  eye 
Unwont  to  weep  sent  forth  the  willing  tear. 

I  went  my  way — but  as  I  went,  I  thought 
How  holy  was  the  Sabbath-day  of  God. 


DEDICATION  HYMN. 
[  Written  to  be  sung  at  the  consecration  of  Hanover-street  Church,  Boston.'] 

THE  perfect  world  by  Adam  trod, 
Was  the  first  temple — built  by  God — 
His  fiat  laid  the  corner-stone, 
And  heaved  its  pillars,  one  by  one. 

He  hung  its  starry  roof  on  high — 
The  broad  illimitable  sky ; 
He  spread  its  pavement,  green  and  bright, 
And  curtain'd  it  with  morning  light. 

The  mountains  in  their  places  stood — 
The  sea — the  sky — and  "all  was  good;" 


(93) 

And,  when  its  first  pure  praises  rang, 
The  "  morning  stars  together  sang." 

Lord!  'tis  not  ours  to  make  the  sea 
And  earth  and  sky  a  house  for  thee ; 
But  in  thy  sight  our  off'ring  stands — 
A  humbler  temple,  "made  with  hands." 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


(97) 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


THE  DYING  ALCHYMIST. 

THE  night  wind  with  a  desolate  moan  swept  by; 
And  the  old  shutters  of  the  turret  swung 
Screaming  upon  their  hinges;  and  the  moon, 
As  the  torn  edges  of  the  clouds  flew  past, 
Struggled  aslant  the  stain'd  and  broken  panes 
So  dimly,  that  the  watchful  eye  of  death 
Scarcely  was  conscious  when  it  went  and  came. 
********* 
The  fire  beneath  his  crucible  was  low ; 
Yet  still  it  burn'd ;  and  ever  as  his  thoughts 
Grew  insupportable,  he  raised  himself 
Upon  his  wasted  arm,  and  stirr'd  the  coals 
With  difficult  energy,  and  when  the  rod 
Fell  from  his  nerveless  fingers,  and  his  eye 
Felt  faint  within  its  socket,  he  shrunk  back 
Upon  his  pallet,  and  with  unclosed  lips 
Mutter'd  a  curse  on  death!     The  silent  room, 
From  its  dim  corners,  mockingly  gave  back 
His  rattling  breath ;  the  humming  in  the  fire 
Had  the  distinctness  of  a  knell ;  and  when 
Duly  the  antique  horologe  beat  one, 
He  drew  a  phial  from  beneath  his  head, 


(98) 

And  drank.     And  instantly  his  lips  compress'd, 
And,  with  a  shudder  in  his  skeleton  frame, 
He  rose  with  supernatural  strength,  and  sat 
Upright,  and  communed  with  himself: — 

I  did  not  think  to  die 
Till  I  had  fmish'd  what  I  had  to  do ; 
I  thought  to  pierce  th'  eternal  secret  through 

With  this  my  mortal  eye ; 
I  felt — oh  God  !  it  seemeth  even  now 
This  cannot  be  the  death-dew  on  my  brow ! 

And  yet  it  is — I  feel, 
Of  this  dull  sickness  at  my  heart,  afraid  ! 
And  in  my  eyes  the  death-sparks  flash  and  fade ; 

And  something  seems  to  steal 
Over  my  bosom  like  a  frozen  hand — 
Binding  its  pulses  with  an  icy  band. 

And  this  is  death  !     But  why 
Feel  I  this  wild  recoil  ?     It  cannot  be 
Th'  immortal  spirit  shuddereth  to  be  free  ! 

Would  it  not  leap  to  fly, 
Like  a  chain'd  eaglet  at  its  parent's  call  ? 
I  fear — I  fear — that  this  poor  life  is  all  ! 

Yet  thus  to  pass  away  ! — 
To  live  but  for  a  hope  that  mocks  at  last — 
To  agonize,  to  strive,  to  watch,  to  fast, 

To  waste  the  light  of  day, 


(99) 

Night's  better  beauty,  feeling,  fancy,  thought, 
All  that  we  have  and  are — for  this — for  naught ! 

Grant  me  another  year, 
God  of  my  spirit  ! — but  a  day — to  win 
Something  to  satisfy  this  thirst  within  ! 

I  would  know  something  here  ! 
Break  for  me  but  one  seal  that  is  unbroken  ! 
Speak  for  me  but  one  word  that  is  unspoken  ! 

Vain — vain  ! — my  brain  is  turning 
With  a  swift  dizziness,  and  my  heart  grows  sick, 
And  these  hot  temple-throbs  come  fast  and  thick, 

And  I  am  freezing — burning — 
Dying  !     Oh  God  !  if  I  might  only  live  ! 

My  phial Ha  !  it  thrills  me — I  revive  ! 

********* 

Ay — were  not  man  to  die, 
He  were  too  mighty  for  this  narrow  sphere  ! 
Had  he  but  time  to  brood  on  knowledge  here — 

Could  he  but  train  his  eye — 
Might  he  but  wait  the  mystic  word  and  hour — 
Only  his  Maker  would  transcend  his  power ! 

Earth  has  no  mineral  strange — 
ThJ  illimitable  air  no  hidden  wings — 
Water  no  quality  in  covert  springs, 

And  fire  no  power  to  change — 
Seasons  no  mystery,  and  stars  no.  spell, 
Which  the  unwasting  soul  might  not  compel. 


(100) 

Oh,  but  for  time  to  track 
The  upper  stars  into  the  pathless  sky — 
To  see  th'  invisible  spirits,  eye  to  eye — 

To  hurl  the  lightning  back — 
To  tread  unhurt  the  sea's  dim-lighted  halls — 
To  chase  Day's  chariot  to  the  horizon-walls — 

And  more,  much  more — for  now 
The  life-seal 'd  fountains  of  my  nature  move — 
To  nurse  and  purify  this  human  love — 

To  clear  the  godlike  brow 
Of  weakness  and  mistrust,  and  bow  it  down, 
Worthy  and  beautiful,  to  the  much-loved  one — 

This  were  indeed  to  feel 
The  soul-thirst  slaken  at  the  living  stream — 
To  live — oh  God  !  that  life  is  but  a  dream  ! 

And  death Aha  !  I  reel — 

Dim — dim — I  faint — darkness  comes  o'er  my  eye- 
Cover  me  !  save  me  ! God  of  heaven  !  I  die  ! 

'Twas  morning,  and  the  old  man  lay  alone. 
No  friend  had  closed  his  eyelids,  and  his  lips, 
Open  and  ashy  pale,  th'  expression  wore 
Of  his  death-struggle.     His  long  silvery  hair 
Lay  on  his  hollow  temples  thin  and  wild, 
His  frame  was  wasted,  and  his  features  wan 
And  haggard  as  with  want,  and  in  his  palm 
His  nails  were*  driven  deep,  as  if  the  throe 
Of  the  last  agony  had  wrung  him  sore. 


(101) 

The  storm  was  raging  still.     The  shutters  swung 
Screaming  as  harshly  in  the  fitful  wind, 
And  all  without  went  on — as  aye  it  will, 
Sunshine  or  tempest,  reckless  that  a  heart 
Is  breaking,  or  has  broken,  in  its  change. 

The  fire  beneath  the  crucible  was  out ; 
The  vessels  of  his  mystic  art  lay  round, 
Useless  and  cold  as  the  ambitious  hand 
That  fashion'd  them,  and  the  small  rod, 
Familiar  to  his  touch  for  threescore  years, 
Lay  on  th'  alembic's  rim,  as  if  it  still 
Might  vex  the  elements  at  its  master's  will. 

And  thus  had  pass'd  from  its  unequal  frame 
A  soul  of  fire — a  sun-bent  eagle  stricken 
From  his  high  soaring  down — an  instrument 
Broken  with  its  own  compass.     Oh  how  poor 
Seems  the  rich  gift  of  genius,  when  it  lies, 
Like  the  adventurous  bird  that  hath  out-flown 
His  strength  upon  the  sea,  ambition-wreck'd — 
A  thing  the  thrush  might  pity,  as  she  sits 
Brooding  in  quiet  on  her  lowly  nest ! 


(102) 


PARRHASIUS. 

"  Parrhasius,  a  painter  of  Athens,  among  those  Olynthian  captives  Philip 
of  Macedon  brought  home  to  sell,  bought  one  very  old  man ;  and  when  he 
had  him  at  his  house,  put  him  to  death  with  extreme  torture  and  torment, 
the  better,  by  his  example,  to  express  the  pains  and  passions  of  his  Pro 
metheus,  whom  he  was  then  about  to  paint." — Burton's  Anat.  of  Mel. 

THERE  stood  an  unsold  captive  in  the  mart, 

A  gray-hair'd  and  majestical  old  man, 

Chain'd  to  a  pillar.     It  was  almost  night, 

And  the  last  seller  from  his  place  had  gone, 

And  not  a  sound  was  heard  but  of  a  dog 

Crunching  beneath  the  stall  a  refuse  bone, 

Or  the  dull  echo  from  the  pavement  rung, 

As  the  faint  captive  changed  his  weary  feet. 

He  had  stood  there  since  morning,  and  had  borne 

From  every  eye  in  Athens  the  cold  gaze 

Of  curious  scorn.     The  Jew  had  taunted  him 

For  an  Olynthian  slave.     The  buyer  came 

And  roughly  struck  his  palm  upon  his  breast, 

And  touch'd  his  unheal'd  wounds,  and  with  a  sneer 

Pass'd  on ;  and  when,  with  weariness  o'erspent, 

He  bow'd  his  head  in  a  forgetful  sleep, 

Th'  inhuman  soldier  smote  him,  and,  with  threats 

Of  torture  to  his  children,  summon'd  back 

The  ebbing  blood  into  his  pallid  face. 

'Twas  evening,  and  the  half-descended  sun 


(103) 

Tipp'd  with  a  golden  fire  the  many  domes 

Of  Athens,  and  a  yellow  atmosphere 

Lay  rich  and  dusky  in  the  shaded  street 

Through  which  the  captive  gazed.     He  had  borne  up 

With  a  stout  heart  that  long  and  weary  day, 

Haughtily  patient  of  his  many  wrongs, 

But  now  he  was  alone,  and  from  his  nerves 

The  needless  strength  departed,  and  he  lean'd 

Prone  on  his  massy  chain,  and  let  his  thoughts 

Throng  on  him  as  they  would.     Unmark'd  of  him, 

Parrhasius  at  the  nearest  pillar  stood, 

Gazing  upon  his  grief.     Th'  Athenian's  cheek 

Flush'd  as  he  measured  with  a  painter's  eye 

The  moving  picture.     The  abandon'd  limbs, 

Stain'd  with  the  oozing  blood,  were  laced  with  veins 

Swollen  to  purple  fulness ;  the  gray  hair, 

Thin  and  disorder'd,  hung  about  his  eyes  ; 

And  as  a  thought  of  wilder  bitterriess 

Rose  in  his  memory,  his  lips  grew  white, 

And  the  fast  workings  of  his  bloodless  face 

Told  what  a  tooth  of  fire  was  at  his  heart. 

******** 

The  golden  light  into  the  painter's  room 

Stream'd  richly,  and  the  hidden  colors  stole 

From  the  dark  pictures  radiantly  forth, 

And  in  the  soft  and  dewy  atmosphere 

Like  forms  and  landscapes  magical  they  lay. 

The  walls  were  hung  with  armor,  and  about 

In  the  dim  corners  stood  the  sculptured  forms 

Of  Cytheris,  and  Dian,  and  stern  Jove, 


(104) 

And  from  the  casement  soberly  away 

Fell  the  grotesque  long  shadows,  full  and  true, 

And,  like  a  veil  of  filmy  mellowness, 

The  lint-spects  floated  in  the  twilight  air. 

Parrhasius  stood,  gazing  forgetfully 

Upon  his  canvass.     There  Prometheus  lay, 

Chain'd  to  the  cold  rocks  of  Mount  Caucasus — 

The  vulture  at  his  vitals,  and  the  links 

Of  the  lame  Lemnian  festering  in  his  flesh  ; 

And,  as  the  painter's  mind  felt  through  the  dim, 

Rapt  mystery,  and  pluck'd  the  shadows  forth 

With  its  far-reaching  fancy,  and  with  form 

And  color  clad  them,  his  fine,  earnest  eye, 

Flash'd  with  a  passionate  fire,  and  the  quick  curl 

Of  his  thin  nostril,  and  his  quivering  lip 

Were  like  the  wing'd  God's,  breathing  from  his  flight. 

"  Bring  me  the  captive  now  ! 
My  hand  feels  skilful,  and  the  shadows  lift 
From  my  waked  spirit  airily  and  swift, 

And  I  could  paint  the  bow 
Upon  the  bended  heavens — around  me  play 
Colors  of  such  divinity  to-day. 

"  Ha !  bind  him  on  his  back  ! 
Look  ! — as  Prometheus  in  my  picture  here  ! 
Quick — or  he  faints  ! — stand  with  the  cordial  near  ! 

Now — bend  him  to  the  rack  ! 
Press  down  the  poison'd  links  into  his  flesh  ! 
And  tear  agape  that  healing  wound  afresh  ! 


(  105  ) 

"  So — let  him  writhe  !     How  long 
Will  he  live  thus  ?     Quick,  my  good  pencil,  now  ! 
What  a  fine  agony  works  upon  his  brow  ! 

Ha  !  gray-hair'd,  and  so  strong  ! 
How  fearfully  he  stifles  that  short  moan  ! 
Gods  !  if  I  could  but  paint  a  dying  groan  ! 

"  '  Pity'  thee  !     So  I  do  ! 
I  pity  the  dumb  victim  at  the  altar — 
But  does  the  robed  priest  for  his  pity  falter  ? 

I'd  rack  thee  though  I  knew 
A  thousand  lives  were  perishing  in  thine — 
What  were  ten  thousand  to  a  fame  like  mine  ? 

"  '  Hereafter  !'     Ay — hereafter  / 
A  whip  to  keep  a  coward  to  his  track  ! 
What  gave  Death  ever  from  his  kingdom  back 

To  check  the  skeptic's  laughter  ? 
Come  from  the  grave  to-morrow  with  that  story — 
And  I  may  take  some  softer  path  to  glory. 

"  No,  no,  old  man  !  we  die 

Even  as  the  flowers,  and  we  shall  breathe  away 
Our  life  upon  the  chance  wind,  even  as  they! 

Strain  well  thy  fainting  eye — 
For  when  that  bloodshot  quivering  is  o'er, 
The  light  of  heaven  will  never  reach  thee  more. 

"  Yet  there's  a  deathless  name  ! 
A  spirit  that  the  smothering  vault  shall  spurn, 


(106) 

And  like  a  steadfast  planet  mount  and  burn — 

And  though  its  crown  of  flame 
Consumed  my  brain  to  ashes  as  it  shone, 
By  all  the  fiery  stars  !  I'd  bind  it  on  ! 

"  Ay — though  it  bid  me  rifle 
My  heart's  last  fount  for  its  insatiate  thirst — 
Though  every  life-strung  nerve  be  madden'd  first — 

Though  it  should  bid  me  stifle 
The  yearning  in  my  throat  for  my  sweet  child, 
And  taunt  its  mother  till  my  brain  went  wild — 

"  All — I  would  do  it  all— - 
Sooner  than  die,  like  a  dull  worm,  to  rot — 
Thrust  foully  into  earth  to  be  forgot  ! 

Oh  heavens  ! — but  I  appal 

Your  heart,  old  man  !  forgive ha  !  on  your  lives 

Let  him  not  faint  ! — rack  him  till  he  revives  ! 

"  Vain — vain — give  o'er  !     His  eye 
Glazes  apace.     He  does  not  feel  you  now — 
Stand  back  !  I'll  paint  the  death-dew  on  his  brow  ! 

Gods  !  if  he  do  not  die 
But  for  one  moment — one — till  I  eclipse 
Conception  with  the  scorn  of  those  calm  lips  ! 

"  Shivering  !     Hark  !  he  mutters 
Brokenly  now — that  was  a  difficult  breath — 
Another  ?     Wilt  thou  never  come,  oh  Death  ! 

Look  !  how  his  temple  flutters ! 


(107) 

Is  his  heart  still  ?     Aha !  lift  up  his  head ! 

He  shudders — gasps — Jove  help  him  ! — so — he's  dead." 


How  like  a  mounting  devil  in  the  heart 

Rules  the  unrein'd  ambition !     Let  it  once 

But  play  the  monarch,  and  its  haughty  brow 

Glows  with  a  beauty  that  bewilders  thought 

And  unthrones  peace  forever.     Putting  on 

The  very  pomp  of  Lucifer,  it  turns 

The  heart  to  ashes,  and  with  not  a  spring 

Left  in  the  bosom  for  the  spirit's  lip, 

We  look  upon  our  splendor  and  forget 

The  thirst  of  which  we  perish !     Yet  hath  life 

Many  a  falser  idol.     There  are  hopes 

Promising  well ;  and  love-touch'd  dreams  for  some ; 

And  passions,  many  a  wild  one  ;  and  fair  schemes 

For  gold  and  pleasure — yet  will  only  this 

Balk  not  the  soul — Ambition  only,  gives, 

Even  of  bitterness,  a  beaker  full ! 

Friendship  is  but  a  slow-awaking  dream, 

Troubled  at  best — Love  is  a  lamp  unseen, 

Burning  to  waste,  or,  if  its  light  is  found, 

Nursed  for  an  idle  hour,  then  idly  broken — 

Gain  is  a  grovelling  care,  and  Folly  tires, 

And  Quiet  is  a  hunger  never  fed — 

And  from  Love's  very  bosom,  and  from  Gain, 

Or  Folly,  or  a  Friend,  or  from  Repose — 

From  all  but  keen  Ambition — will  the  soul 

Snatch  the  first  moment  of  forgetfulness 


(108) 

To  wander  like  a  restless  child  away. 

Oh,  if  there  were  not  better  hopes  than  these — 

Were  there  no  palm  beyond  a  feverish  fame — 

If  the  proud  wealth  flung  back  upon  the  heart 

Must  canker  in  its  coffers — if  the  links 

Falsehood  hath  broken  will  unite  no  more — 

If  the  deep-yearning  love,  that  hath  not  found 

Its  like  in  the  cold  world,  must  waste  in  tears — 

If  truth,  and  fervor,  and  devotedness, 

Finding  no  worthy  altar,  must  return 

And  die  of  their  own  fulness — if  beyond 

The  grave  there  is  no  heaven  in  whose  wide  air 

The  spirit  may  find  room,  and  in  the  love 

Of  whose  bright  habitants  the  lavish  heart 

May  spend  itself — wJiat  thrice-mocked  fools  are  we  ! 


THE  SCHOLAR  OF  THEBET  BEN  KHORAT.* 

"  Influentia  coeli  morbum  hunc  movet,  interdum  omnibus  aliis  amotis." — 
Mdancthon  de  Awxna,  Cap.  de  Humoribus. 


NIGHT  in  Arabia.     An  hour  ago, 

Pale  Dian  had  descended  from  the  sky, 

*  A  famous  Arabian  astrologer,  who  is  said  to  have  spent  forty  years  in 
discovering  the  motion  of  the  eighth  sphere.  He  had  a  scholar,  a  young 
Bedouin  Arab,  who,  with  a  singular  passion  for  knowledge,  abandoned  his 
wandering  tribe,  and,  applying  himself  too  closely  to  astiology,  lost  his 
reason  and  died. 


(109) 

Flinging  her  cestus  out  upon  the  sea, 

And  at  their  watches,  now,  the  solemn  stars 

Stood  vigilant  and  lone ;  and,  dead  asleep, 

With  not  a  shadow  moving  on  its  breast, 

The  breathing  earth  lay  in  its  silver  dew, 

And,  trembling  on  their  myriad  viewless  wings, 

Th'  imprison'd  odors  left  the  flowers  to  dream, 

And  stole  away  upon  the  yielding  air. 

Ben  Khorat's  tower  stands  shadowy  and  tall 

In  Mecca's  loneliest  street ;  and  ever  there, 

When  night  is  at  the  deepest,  burns  his  lamp 

As  constant  as  the  Cynosure,  and  forth 

From  his  loop'd  window  stretch  the  brazen  tubes, 

Pointing  forever  at  the  central  star 

Of  that  dim  nebula  just  lifting  now 

Over  Mount  Arafat.     The  sky  to-night 

Is  of  a  clearer  blackness  than  is  wont, 

And  far  within  its  depths  the  colored  stars* 

Sparkle  like  gems — capricious  Antaresf 

Flushing  and  paling  in  the  Southern  arch  • 

*  "  Even  to  the  naked  eye,  the  stars  appear  of  palpably  different  colors ; 
but  when  viewed  with  a  prismatic  glass,  they  may  be  very  accurately  classed 
into  the  red,  the  yellow,  the  brilliant  white,  the  dull  white,  and  the  anom 
alous.  This  is  true  also  of  the  planets,  which  shine  by  reflected  light,  and 
of  course  the  difference  of  color  must  be  supposed  to  arise  from  their  dif 
ferent  powers  to  absorb  and  reflect  the  rays  of  the  sun.  The  original  com 
position  of  the  stars,  and  the  different  dispersive  powers  of  their  different 
atmospheres,  may  be  supposed  to  account  also  for  this  phenomenon." 

t  This  star  exhibits  a  peculiar  quality — a  rapid  and  beautiful  change  in  the 
color  of  its  light ;  every  alternate  twinkling  being  of  an  intense  reddish 
crimson  color,  and  the  answering  one  of  a  brilliant  white. 


(110) 

And  azure  Lyra,  like  a  woman's  eye, 

Burning  with  soft  blue  lustre ;  and  away 

Over  the  desert  the  bright  Polar  star, 

White  as  a  flashing  icicle  ;  and  here, 

Hung  like  a  lamp  above  th'  Arabian  sea, 

Mars  with  his  dusky  glow ;  and  fairer  yet, 

Mild  Sirius,*  tinct  with  dewy  violet, 

Set  like  a  flower  upon  the  breast  of  Eve ; 

And  in  the  zenith  the  sweet  Pleiades,  f 

(Alas — that  even  a  star  may  pass  from  heaven 

And  not  be  miss'd  !) — the  linked  Pleiades 

Undimm'd  are  there,  though  from  the  sister  band 

The  fairest  has  gone  down ;  and,  South  away, 

HirundoJ  with  its  little  company ; 

And  white-brow'd  Vesta,  lamping  on  her  path 

Lonely  and  planet-calm,  and,  all  through  heaven, 

Articulate  almost,  they  troop  to-night, 

Like  unrobed  angels  in  a  prophet's  trance. 

Ben  Khorat  knelt  before  his  telescope. § 
Gazing  with  earnest  stillness  on  the  stars. 
The  gray  hairs,  struggling  from  his  turban-folds, 
Play'd  with  the  entering  wind  upon  his  cheeks, 

*  When  seen  with  a  prismatic  glass,  Sirius  shows  a  large  brush  of  exceed 
ingly  beautiful  rays. 

t  The  Pleiades  are  vertical  in  Arabia. 

$  An  Arabic  constellation  placed  instead  of  the  Piscis  Australis,  because 
the  swallow  arrives  in  Arabia  about  the  time  of  the  heliacal  rising  of  the 
Fishes. 

§  An  anachronism,  the  author  is  aware.  The  Telescope  was  not  invented 
for  a  century  or  two  after  the  time  of  Ben  Khorat. 


(Ill) 

And  on  his  breast  his  venerable  beard 
With  supernatural  whiteness  loosely  fell. 
The  black  flesh  swelFd  about  his  sandal -thongs, 
Tight  with  his  painful  posture,  and  his  lean 
And  wither'd  fingers  to  his  knees  were  clench'd, 
And  the  thin  lashes  of  his  straining  eye 
Lay  with  unwinking  closeness  to  the  lens, 
Stiffen'd  with  tense  up-turning.     Hour  by  hour, 
Till  the  stars  melted  in  the  flush  of  morn, 
The  old  astrologer  knelt  moveless  there, 
Ravish'd  past  pain  with  the  bewildering  spheres, 
And,  hour  by  hour,  with  the  same  patient  thought, 
Pored  his  pale  scholar  on  the  characters 
Of  Chaldee  writ,  or,  as  his  gaze  grew  dim 
With  weariness,  the  dark-eyed  Arab  laid 
His  head  upon  the  window  and  look'd  forth 
Upon  the  heavens  awhile,  until  the  dews 
And  the  soft  beauty  of  the  silent  night 
Cool'd  his  flush'd  eyelids,  and  then  patiently 
He  turn'd  unto  his  constant  task  again. 

The  sparry  glinting  of  the  Morning  Star 
Shot  through  the  leaves  of  a  majestic  palm 
Fringing  Mount  Arafat,  and,  as  it  caught 
The  eye  of  the  rapt  scholar,  he  arose 
And  clasp'd  the  volume  with  an  eager  haste, 
And  as  the  glorious  planet  mounted  on, 
Melting  her  way  into  the  upper  sky, 
He  breathlessly  gazed  on  her: — 


(112) 

"  Star  of  the  silver  ray  ! 
Bright  as  a  god,  but  punctual  as  a  slave — 
What  spirit  the  eternal  canon  gave 

That  bends  thee  to  thy  way  ? 
What  is  the  soul  that,  on  thine  arrowy  light, 
Is  walking  earth  and  heaven  in  pride  to-night  ? 

"  We  know  when  thou  wilt  soar 
Over  the  mount — thy  change,  and  place,  and  time — 
5Tis  written  in  the  Chaldee's  mystic  rhyme 

As  'twere  a  priceless  lore  ! 
I  knew  as  much  in  my  Bedouin  garb — 
Coursing  the  desert  on  my  flying  barb ! 

"  How  oft  amid  the  tents 
Upon  Sahara's  sands  I've  walk'd  alone, 
Waiting  all  night  for  thee,  resplendent  one  ! 

With  what  magnificence, 
In  the  last  watches,  to  my  thirsting  eye, 
Thy  passionate  beauty  flush'd  into  the  sky  ! 

"  Oh  God !  how  flew  my  soul 
Out  to  thy  glory — upward  on  thy  ray — 
Panting  as  thou  ascendedst  on  thy  way, 

As  if  thine  own  control — 
This  searchless  spirit  that  I  cannot  find — 
Had  set  its  radiant  law  upon  my  mind ! 

"  More  than  all  stars  in  heaven 
I  felt  thee  in  my  heart !  my  love  became 


(113) 

A  frenzy,  and  consumed  me  with  its  flame. 

Ay,  in  the  desert  even — 
My  dark-eyed  Abra  coursing  at  my  side — 
The  star,  not  Abra,  was  my  spirit's  bride ! 

"  My  Abra  is  no  more ! 
My  c  desert-bird'  is  in  a  stranger's  stall — 
My  tribe,  my  tent — I  sacrificed  them  all 

For  this  heart- wasting  lore  ! — 
Yet,  than  all  these,  the  thought  is  sweeter  far — 
Thou  wert  ascendant  at  my  birth,  bright  star! 

«  The  Chaldee  calls  me  thine— 
And  in  this  breast,  that  I  must  rend  to  be 
A  spirit  upon  wings  of  light  like  thee, 

I  feel  that  thou  art  mine  f 

Oh  God !  that  these  dull  fetters  would  give  way 
And  let  me  forth  to  track  thy  silver  ray  !" 

*         *         *         *         Ben  Khorat  rose 
And  silently  look'd  forth  upon  the  East. 
The  dawn  was  stealing  up  into  the  sky 
On  its  gray  feet,  the  stars  grew  dim  apace, 
And  faded,  till  the  Morning  Star  alone, 
Soft  as  a  molten  diamond's  liquid  fire, 
Burn'd  in  the  heavens.     The  morn  grew  freshlier — 
The  upper  clouds  were  faintly  touch'd  with  gold; 
The  fan-palms  rustled  in  the  early  air ; 
Daylight  spread  cool  and  broadly  to  the  hills ; 
And  still  the  star  was  visible,  and  still 


(114) 

The  young  Bedouin  with  a  straining  eye 
Drank  its  departing  light  into  his  soul. 
It  faded — melted — and  the  fiery  rim 
Of  the  clear  sun  came  up,  and  painfully 
The  passionate  scholar  press'd  upon  his  eyes 
His  dusky  fingers,  and,  with  limbs  as  weak 
As  a  sick  child's,  turn'd  fainting  to  his  couch, 
And  slept.         ****** 


n. 

*         *         It  was  the  morning  watch  once  more, 

The  clouds  were  drifting  rapidly  above, 

And  dim  and  fast  the  glimmering  stars  flew  through ; 

And  as  the  fitful  gust  sough'd  mournfully, 

The  shutters  shook,  and  on  the  sloping  roof 

Plash'd,  heavily,  large,  single  drops  of  rain — 

And  all  was  still  again.     Ben  Khorat  sat 

By  the  dim  lamp,  and,  while  his  scholar  slept, 

Pored  on  the  Chaldee  wisdom.     At  his  feet, 

Stretch'd  on  a  pallet,  lay  the  Arab  boy, 

Muttering  fast  in  his  unquiet  sleep, 

And  working  his  dark  fingers  in  his  palms 

Convulsively.     His  sallow  lips  were  pale, 

And,  as  they  moved,  his  teeth  show'd  ghastly  through, 

White  as  a  charnel  bone,  and — closely  drawn 

Upon  his  sunken  eyes,  as  if  to  press 

Some  frightful  image  from  the  bloodshot  balls — 

His  lids  a  moment  quiver'd,  and  again 


(115) 

Relax'dj  half  open,  in  a  calmer  sleep. 

Ben  Khorat  gazed  upon  the  dropping  sands       r.t 

Of  the  departing  hour.     The  last  white  grain 

Fell  through,  and  with  the  tremulous  hand  of  age 

The  old  astrologer  reversed  the  glass ; 

And,  as  the  voiceless  monitor  went  on, 

Wasting  and  wasting  with  the  precious  hour, 

He  look'd  upon  it  with  a  moving  lip, 

And,  starting,  turn'd  his  gaze  upon  the  heavens, 

Cursing  the  clouds  impatiently. 

"  'Tis  time !" 

Mutter'd  the  dying  scholar,  and  he  dash'd 
The  tangled  hair  from  his  black  eyes  away, 
And,  seizing  on  Ben  Khorat's  mantle-folds, 
He  struggled  to  his  feet,  and  falling  prone 
Upon  the  window-ledge,  gazed  steadfastly 
Into  the  East  :— 

"  There  is  a  cloud  between — 
She  sits  this  instant  on  the  mountain's  brow, 
And  that  dusk  veil  hides  all  her  glory  now — 

Yet  floats  she  as  serene 

Into  the  heavens ! Oh  God  !  that  even  so 

I  could  o'ermount  my  spirit-cloud,  and  go ! 

"The  cloud  begins  to  drift! 
Aha  !  fling  open  !  'tis  the  star — the  sky  ! 
Touch  me,  immortal  mother !  and  I  fly  ! 

Wider  !  thou  cloudy  rift ! 


(116) 

Let  through  ! — such  glory  should  have  radiant  room ! 
Let  through  ! — a  star-child  on  its  light  goes  home  ! 

"  Speak  to  me,  brethren  bright ! 
Ye  who  are  floating  in  these  living  beams  ! 
Ye  who  have  come  to  me  in  starry  dreams ! 

Ye  who  have  wing'd  the  light 
Of  our  bright  mother  with  its  thoughts  of  flame — 
— (I  knew  it  pass'd  through  spirits  as  it  came) — 

"  Tell  me  !  what  power  have  ye  ? 
What  are  the  heights  ye  reach  upon  your  wings  ? 
What  know  ye  of  the  myriad  wondrous  things 

I  perish  but  to  see  ? 

Are  ye  thought-rapid  ? — Can  ye  fly  as  far — 
As  instant  as  a  thought,  from  star  to  star  ? 

"  Where  has  the  Pleiad  gone  ? 

Where  have  all  missing  stars*  found  light  and  home  ? 
Who  bids  the  Stella  Miraf  go  and  come  ? 


*  4  Missing  stars'  are  often  spoken  of  in  the  old  books  of  astronomy. 
Hipparchus  mentions  one  that  appeared  and  vanished  very  suddenly ;  and 
in  the  beginning  of  the  sixteenth  century  Kepler  discovered  a  new  star  near 
the  heel  of  the  right  foot  of  Serpentarius,  "so  bright  and  sparkling  that  it 
exceeded  any  thing  he  had  ever  seen  before."  He  "  took  notice  that  it 
was  every  moment  changing  into  some  of  the  colors  of  the  rainbow,  ex 
cept  when  it  was  near  the  horizon,  when  it  was  generally  white."  It  dis 
appeared  in  the  following  year,  and  has  not  been  seen  since. 

t  A  wonderful  star  in  the  neck  of  the  Whale,  discovered  by  Fabricius  in 
the  fifteenth  century.  It  appears  and  disappears  seven  times  in  six  years, 
and  continues  in  the  greatest  lustre  for  fifteen  days  together. 


(117) 

Why  sits  the  Pole-star  lone  ? 
And  why,  like  banded  sisters,  through  the  air 
Go  in  bright  troops  the  constellations  fair  ? 

"  Ben  Khorat !  dost  thou  mark  ? 

The  star  !  the  star  ?     By  heaven  !  the  cloud  drifts  o'er  ! 
Gone — and  I  live  I  nay — will  my  heart  beat  more  ? 

Look  !  master  !  'tis  all  dark  ! 

Not  a  clear  speck  in  heaven  ? — my  eyeballs  smother  ! 
Break  through  the  clouds  once  more  !  oh  starry  mother  ! 

"  I  will  lie  down  !     Yet  stay, 
The  rain  beats  out  the  odor  from  the  gums, 
And  strangely  soft  to-night  the  spice- wind  comes ! 

I  am  a  child  alway 

When  it  is  on  my  forehead  !  Abra  sweet ! 
Would  I  were  in  the  desert  at  thy  feet ! 

"  My  barb  !  my  glorious  steed  ! 
Methinks  my  soul  would  mount  upon  its  track 
More  fleetly,  could  I  die  upon  thy  back ! 

How  would  thy  thrilling  speed 
Quicken  my  pulse  ! — Oh  Allah  !  I  get  wild  ! 
Would  that  I  were  once  more  a  desert-child  ! 

"  Nay — nay — I  had  forgot ! 
My  mother  !  my  star  mother  ! — Ha  f  my  breath 
Stifles  ! more  air  ! Ben  Khorat !  this  is — death  ! 

Touch  me  ! 1  feel  you  not ! 


(118) 

Dying ! — Farewell !  good  master  ! — room  !  more  room ! 
Abra  !  I  loved  thee  !  star  !  bright  star  !  I come  !" 

How  idly  of  the  human  heart  we  speak, 

Giving  it  gods  of  clay  !     How  worse  than  vain 

Is  the  school  homily,  that  Eden's  fruit 

Cannot  be  pluck'd  too  freely  from  "the  tree 

Of  good  and  evil."     Wisdom  sits  alone, 

Topmost  in  heaven  ; — she  is  its  light — its  God  ! 

And  in  the  heart  of  man  she  sits  as  high — 

Though  grovelling  eyes  forget  her  oftentimes, 

Seeing  but  this  world's  idols.     The  pure  mind 

Sees  her  forever :  and  in  youth  we  come 

Fill'd  with  her  sainted  ravishment,  and  kneel, 

Worshipping  God  through  her  sweet  altar-fires, 

And  then  is  knowledge  "  good."     We  come  too  oft — 

The  heart  grows  proud  with  fulness,  and  we  soon 

Look  with  licentious  freedom  on  the  maid 

Throned  in  celestial  beauty.     There  she  sits, 

Robed  in  her  soft  and  seraph  loveliness, 

Instructing  and  forgiving,  and  we  gaze 

Until  desire  grows  wild,  and,  with  our  hands 

Upon  her  very  garments,  are  struck  down, 

Blasted  with  a  consuming  fire  from  heaven  ! 

Yet,  oh !  how  full  of  music  from  her  lips 

Breathe  the  calm  tones  of  wisdom  !     Human  praise 

Is  sweet — till  envy  mars  it,  and  the  touch 

Of  new-won  gold  stirs  up  the  pulses  well ; 

And  woman's  love,  if  in  a  beggar's  lamp 

'Twould  burn,  might  light  us  clearly  through  the  world ; 


(119) 

But  Knowledge  hath  a  far  more  Vildering  tongue, 
And  she  will  stoop  and  lead  you  to  the  stars, 
And  witch  you  with  her  mysteries — till  gold 
Is  a  forgotten  dross,  and  power  and  fame 
Toys  of  an  hour,  and  woman's  careless  love, 
Light  as  the  breath  that  breaks  it.     He  who  binds 
His  soul  to  knowledge  steals  the  key  of  heaven — 
But  'tis  a  bitter  mockery  that  the  fruit 
May  hang  within  his  reach,  and  when,  with  thirst 
Wrought  to  a  maddening  frenzy,  he  would  taste — 
It  burns  his  lips  to  ashes ! 


THE  WIFE'S  APPEAL. 

"  Love  borrows  greatly  from  opinion.    Pride,  above  all  things,  strengthens 
affection."— E.  L.  BULWER. 

HE  sat  and  read.     A  book  with  silver  clasps, 

All  gorgeous  with  illuminated  lines 

Of  gold  and  crimson,  lay  upon  a  frame 

Before  him.     'Twas  a  volume  of  old  time ; 

And  in  it  were  fine  mysteries  of  the  stars 

Solved  with  a  cunning  wisdom,  and  strange  thoughts, 

Half  prophecy,  half  poetry,  and  dreams 

Clearer  than  truth,  and  speculations  wild 

That  touch'd  the  secrets  of  your  very  soul, 


(120) 

They  were  so  based  on  Nature.     With  a  face 

Glowing  with  thought,  he  pored  upon  the  book. 

The  cushions  of  an  Indian  loom  lay  soft 

Beneath  his  limbs,  and,  as  he  turn'd  the  page, 

The  sunlight,  streaming  through  the  curtain's  fold, 

Fell  with  a  rose-tint  on  his  jewell'd  hand  ; 

And  the  rich  woods  of  the  quaint  furniture 

Lay  deepening  their  vein'd  colors  in  the  sun, 

And  the  stain'd  marbles  on  the  pedestals 

Stood  like  a  silent  company — Voltaire, 

With  an  infernal  sneer  upon  his  lips ; 

And  Socrates,  with  godlike  human  love 

Stamp'd  on  his  countenance  ;  and  orators, 

Of  times  gone  by  that  made  them ;  and  old  bards, 

And  Medicean  Venus,  half  divine. 

Around  the  room  were  shelves  of  dainty  lore, 

And  rich  old  pictures  hung  upon  the  walls 

Where  the  slant  light  fell  on  them  ;  and  wrought  gems, 

Medallions,  rare  mosaics,  and  antiques 

From  Herculaneum,  the  niches  fill'd ; 

And  on  a  table  of  enamel,  wrought 

With  a  lost  art  in  Italy,  there  lay 

Prints  of  fair  women,  and  engravings  rare, 

And  a  new  poem,  and  a  costly  toy ; 

And  in  their  midst  a  massive  lamp  of  bronze 

Burning  sweet  spices  constantly.     Asleep 

Upon  the  carpet  couch'd  a  graceful  hound, 

Of  a  rare  breed,  and,  as  his  master  gave 

A  murmur  of  delight  at  some  sweet  line, 

He  raised  his  slender  head,  and  kept  his  eye 


(121) 

Upon  him  till  the  pleasant  smile  had  pass'd 
From  his  mild  lips,  and  then  he  slept  again. 
The  light  beyond  the  crimson  folds  grew  dusk, 
And  the  clear  letters  of  the  pleasant  book 
Mingled  and  blurr'd,  and  the  lithe  hound  rose  up, 
And,  with  his  earnest  eye  upon  the  door, 
Listened  attentively.     It  came  as  wont — 
The  fall  of  a  light  foot  upon  the  stair — 
And  the  fond  animal  sprang  out  to  meet 
His  mistress,  and  caress  the  ungloved  hand, 
He  seem'd  to  know  was  beautiful.     She  stoop'd 
Gracefully  down  and  touch'd  his  silken  ears 
As  she  pass'd  in — then,  with  a  tenderness, 
Half  playful  and  half  serious,  she  knelt 
Upon  the  ottoman  and  press'd  her  lips 
Upon  her  husband's  forehead. 


She  rose  and  put  the  curtain- folds  aside 
From  the  high  window,  and  look'd  out  upon 
The  shining  stars  in  silence.     "  Look  they  not 
Like  Paradises  to  thine  eye  ?"  he  said — 
But,  as  he  spoke,  a  tear  fell  through  the  light — 
And — starting  from  his  seat — he  folded  her 
Close  to  his  heart,  and — with  unsteady  voice — 
Ask'd — if  she  was  not  happy.     A  faint  smile 
Broke  through  her  tears ;  and  pushing  off  the  hair 
From  his  broad  forehead,  she  held  back  his  head 
With  her  white  hand,  and,  gazing  on  his  face, 
Gave  to  her  heart  free  utterance : — 


(122) 

"  Happy  ?— yes,  dearest ! — blest 
Beyond  the  limit  of  my  wildest  dream — 
Too  bright,  indeed,  my  blessings  ever  seem ; 

There  lives  not  in  my  breast 
One  of  Hope's  promises  by  Love  unkept, 
And  yet — forgive  me,  Ernest — I  have  wept. 

"  How  shall  I  speak  of  sadness, 
And  seem  not  thankless  to  my  God  and  thee  ? 
How  can  the  lightest  wish  but  seem  to  be 

The  very  whim  of  madness  ? 
Yet,  oh,  there  is  a  boon  thy  love  beside — 
And  I  will  ask  it  of  thee — in  my  pride  ! 

"  List,  while  my  boldness  lingers  ! 
If  thou  hadst  won  yon  twinkling  star  to  hear  thee — 
If  thou  couldst  bid  the  rainbow's  curve  bend  near  thee — 

If  thou  couldst  charm  thy  fingers 
To  weave  for  thee  the  sunset's  tent  of  gold — 
Wouldst  in  thine  own  heart  treasure  it  untold  ? 

"  If  thou  hadst  Ariel's  gift, 
To  course  the  veined  metals  of  the  earth — 
If  thou  couldst  wind  a  fountain  to  its  birth— 

If  thou  couldst  know  the  drift 
Of  the  lost  cloud  that  sail'd  into  the  sky — 
Wouldst  keep  it  for  thine  own  unanswered  eye  ? 

"  It  is  thy  life  and  mine  ! — 
Thou,  in  thyself— and  I  in  thee— misprison 


(123) 

Gifts  like  a  circle  of  bright  stars  unrisen — 

For  thou  whose  mind  should  shine, 
Eminent  as  a  planet's  light,  art  here — 
Moved  with  the  starting  of  a  woman's  tear  ! 

"  I  have  told  o'er  thy  powers 
In  secret,  as  a  miser  tells  his  gold ; 
I  know  thy  spirit  calm,  and  true,  and  bold  : 

I've  watch'd  thy  lightest  hours, 
And  seen  thee,  in  the  wildest  flush  of  youth, 
Touch'd  with  the  instinct  ravishment  of  truth. 

"  Thou  hast  the  secret  strange 
To  read  that  hidden  book,  the  human  heart ; 
Thou  hast  the  ready  writer's  practised  art  j 

Thou  hast  the  thought  to  range 
The  broadest  circles  Intellect  hath  ran — 
And  thou  art  God's  best  work — an  honest  man ! 

"  And  yet  thou  slumberest  here 
Like  a  caged  bird  that  never  knew  its  pinions, 
And  others  track  in  glory  the  dominions 

Where  thou  hast  not  thy  peer — 
Setting  their  weaker  eyes  unto  the  sun, 
And  plucking  honor  that  thou  shouldst  have  won. 

"  Oh,  if  thou  lovedst  me  ever, 
Ernest,  my  husband  ! — if  th'  idolatry 
That  lets  go  heaven  to  fling  its  all  on  thee — 

If  to  dismiss  thee  never 


(124) 

In  dream  or  prayer,  have  given  me  aught  to  claim- 
Heed  me — oh,  heed  me !  and  awake  to  fame  !" 

Her  lips 

Closed  with  an  earnest  sweetness,  and  she  sat 
Gazing  into  his  eyes  as  if  her  look 
Search'd  their  dark  orbs  for  answer.     The  warm  blood 
Into  his  temples  mounted,  and  across 
His  countenance  the  flush  of  passionate  thoughts 
Pass'd  with  irresolute  quickness.     He  rose  up 
And  paced  the  dim  room  rapidly  awhile, 
Calming  his  troubled  mind ;  and  then  he  came 
And  laid  his  hand  upon  her  orbed  brow, 
And  in  a  voice  of  heavenly  tenderness 
Answer'd  her : — 

"  Before  I  knew  thee,  Mary, 
Ambition  was  my  angel.     I  did  hear 
Forever  its  witch'd  voices  in  mine  ear ; 

My  days  were  visionary — 

My  nights  were  like  the  slumbers  of  the  mad — 
And  every  dream  swept  o'er  me  glory-clad. 

"  I  read  the  burning  letters 
Of  warlike  pomp,  on  History's  page,  alone ; 
I  counted  nothing  the  struck  widow's  moan ; 

I  heard  no  clank  of  fetters ; 
I  only  felt  the  trumpet's  stirring  blast, 
And  lean-eyed  Famine  stalk'd  unchallenged  past  f 


(125) 

"  I  heard  with  veins  of  lightning 
The  utterance  of  the  Statesman's  word  of  power — 
Binding  and  loosing  nations  in  an  hour — 

But,  while  my  eye  was  bright'ning, 
A  mask'd  detraction  breathed  upon  his  fame, 
And  a  cursed  serpent  slimed  his  written  name. 

"  The  Poet  rapt  mine  ears 
With  the  transporting  music  that  he  sung. 
With  fibres  from  his  life  his  lyre  he  strung, 

And  bathed  the  world  in  tears — 
And  then  he  turn'd  away  to  muse  apart, 
And  Scorn  stole  after  him — and  broke  his  heart! 

"  Yet  here  and  there  I  saw 
One  who  did  set  the  world  at  calm  defiance, 
And  press  right  onward  with  a  bold  reliance ; 

And  he  did  seem  to  awe 
The  very  shadows  pressing  on  his  breast, 
And,  with  a  strong  heart,  held  himself  at  rest. 

"  And  then  I  look'd  again — 
And  he  had  shut  the  door  upon  the  crowd, 
And  on  his  face  he  lay  and  groan'd  aloud — 

Wrestling  with  hidden  pain ; 
And  in  her  chamber  sat  his  wife  in  tears, 
And  his  sweet  babes  grew  sad  with  whisper'd  fears. 

"  And  so  I  turn'd  sick-hearted 
From  the  bright  cup  away,  and,  in  my  sadness, 


(126) 

Search'd  mine  own  bosom  for  some  spring  of  gladness ; 

And  lo  !  a  fountain  started 

Whose  waters  even  in  death  flow  calm  and  fast, 
And  my  wild  fever-thirst  was  slaked  at  last. 

"  And  then  I  met  thee,  Mary, 
And  felt  how  love  may  into  fulness  pour, 
Like  light  into  a  fountain  running  o'er : 

And  I  did  hope  to  vary 
My  life  but  with  surprises  sweet  as  this — 
A  dream — but  for  thy  waking — filPd  with  bliss. 

"  Yet  now  I  feel  my  spirit 
Bitterly  stirr'd,  and — nay,  lift  up  thy  brow  I 
It  is  thine  own  voice  echoing  to  thee  now, 

And  thou  didst  pray  to  hear  it — 
I  must  unto  my  work  and  my  stern  hours  ! 
Take  from  my  room  thy  harp,  and  books,  and  flowers ! 


*  A  year— 

And  in  his  room  again  he  sat  alone. 
His  frame  had  lost  its  fulness  in  that  time ; 
His  manly  features  had  grown  sharp  and  thin, 
And  from  his  lips  the  constant  smile  had  faded. 
Wild  fires  had  burn'd  the  languor  from  his  eye  : 
The  lids  look'd  fever'd,  and  the  brow  was  bent 
With  an  habitual  frown.     He  was  much  changed. 
His  chin  was  resting  on  his  clenched  hand, 
And  with  his  foot  he  beat  upon  the  floor, 


(127) 

Unconsciously,  the  time  of  a  sad  tune. 
Thoughts  of  the  past  prey'd  on  him  bitterly. 
He  had  won  power  and  held  it.     He  had  walk'd 
Steadily  upward  in  the  eye  of  Fame, 
And  kept  his  truth  unsullied — but  his  home 
Had  been  invaded  by  envenom'd  tongues ; 
His  wife — his  spotless  wife — had  been  assail 'd 
By  slander,  and  his  child  had  grown  afraid 
To  come  to  him — his  manner  was  so  stern. 
He  could  not  speak  beside  his  own  hearth  freely. 
His  friends  were  half  estranged,  and  vulgar  men 
Presumed  upon  their  services  and  grew 
Familiar  with  him.     He'd  small  time  to  sleep, 
And  none  to  pray ;  and,  with  his  heart  in  fetters, 
He  bore  harsh  insults  silently,  and  bow'd 
Respectfully  to  men  who  knew  he  loathed  them  ! 
And,  when  his  heart  was  eloquent  with  truth, 
And  love  of  country,  and  an  honest  zeal 
Burn'd  for  expression,  he  could  find  no  words 
They  would  not  misinterpret  with  their  lies. 
What  were  his  many  honors  to  him  now  ? 
The  good  half  doubted,  falsehood  was  so  strong — 
His  home  was  hateful  with  its  cautious  fears — 
His  wife  lay  trembling  on  his  very  breast 
Frighted  with  calumny  ! — And  this  is  FAME  ! 


(128) 


MELANIE. 


I  STOOD  on  yonder  rocky  brow,* 

And  marvell'd  at  the  Sibyl's  fane, 
When  I  was  not  what  I  am  now. 

My  life  was  then  untouch'd  of  pain  ; 
And,  as  the  breeze  that  stirr'd  my  hair, 

My  spirit  freshen'd  in  the  sky, 
And  all  things  that  were  true  and  fair 

Lay  closely  to  my  loving  eye, 
With  nothing  shadowy  between — 
I  was  a  boy  of  seventeen. 
Yon  wondrous  temple  crests  the  rock — 

As  light  upon  its  giddy  base, 
As  stirless  with  the  torrent's  shock, 

As  pure  in  its  proportion'd  grace, 
And  seems  a  thing  of  air — as  then, 
Afloat  above  this  fairy  glen ; 

But  though  mine  eye  will  kindle  still 
In  looking  on  the  shapes  of  art, 

The  link  is  lost  that  sent  the  thrill, 
Like  lightning  instant  to  my  heart. 

*  The  story  is  told  during  a  walk  around  the  Cascatelles  of  Tivoli. 


(129) 

And  thus  may  break,  before  we  die, 
Th'  electric  chain  'twixt  soul  and  eye  ! 

Ten  years — like  yon  bright  valley,  sown 

Alternately  with  weeds  and  flowers — 
Had  swiftly,  if  not  gaily,  flown, 

And  still  I  loved  the  rosy  Hours  ; 
And  if  there  lurk'd  within  my  breast 

Some  nerve  that  had  been  overstrung 
And  quiver'd  in  my  hours  of  rest, 

Like  bells  by  their  own  echo  rung, 
I  was  with  Hope  a  masquer  yet, 

And  well  could  hide  the  look  of  sadness  ; 
And,  if  my  heart  would  not  forget, 

I  knew,  at  least,  the  trick  of  gladness  ; 
And  when  another  sang  the  strain, 
I  mingled  in  the  old  refrain. 

'Twere  idle  to  remember  now, 

Had  I  the  heart,  my  thwarted  schemes. 
I  bear  beneath  this  alter'd  brow 

The  ashes  of  a  thousand  dreams — 
Some  wrought  of  wild  Ambition's  fingers, 

Some  color'd  of  Love's  pencil  well — 
But  none  of  which  a  shadow  lingers, 

And  none  whose  story  I  could  tell. 
Enough,  that  when  I  climb'd  again 

To  Tivoli's  romantic  steep, 
Life  had  no  joy,  and  scarce  a  pain, 

Whose  wells  I  had  not  tasted  deep  ; 


(130) 

And  from  my  lips  the  thirst  had  pass'd 
For  every  fount  save  one — the  sweetest — and  the  last. 

The  last — the  last  !     My  friends  were  dead, 

Or  false  ;  my  mother  in  her  grave ; 
Above  my  father's  honor'd  head 

The  sea  had  lock'd  its  hiding  wave ; 
Ambition  had  but  foil'd  my  grasp, 
And  love  had  perish'd  in  my  clasp ; 

And  still,  I  say,  I  did  not  slack 
My  love  of  life,  and  hope  of  pleasure, 

But  gather'd  my  affections  back ; 
And,  as  the  miser  hugs  his  treasure 

When  plague  and  ruin  bid  him  flee, 
I  closer  clung  to  mine — my  loved,  lost  Melanie  ! 

The  last  of  the  De  Brevern  race. 

My  sister  claim'd  no  kinsman's  care  ; 
And,  looking  from  each  other's  face, 

The  eye  stole  upward  unaware — 
For  there  was  naught  whereon  to  lean 
Each  other's  heart  and  heaven  between — 

Yet  that  was  world  enough  for  me ; 
And,  for  a  brief  but  blessed  while, 

There  seem'd  no  care  for  Melanie 
If  she  could  see  her  brother  smile  ! 

But  life  with  her  was  at  the  flow, 
And  every  wave  went  sparkling  higher, 

While  mine  was  ebbing,  fast  and  low, 
From  the  same  shore  of  vain  desire ; 


(131) 

And  knew  I,  with  prophetic  heart, 
That  we  were  wearing,  aye,  insensibly  apart. 


n. 

We  came  to  Italy.     I  felt 

A  yearning  for  its  sunny  sky ; 
My  very  spirit  seem'd  to  melt 

As  swept  its  first  warm  breezes  by. 
From  lip  and  cheek  a  chilling  mist, 

From  life  and  soul  a  frozen  rime, 
By  every  breath  seem'd  softly  kiss'd — 

God's  blessing  on  its  radiant  clime  ! 
It  was  an  endless  joy  to  me 

To  see  my  sister's  new  delight ; 
From  Venice  in  its  golden  sea 

To  PcBstum  in  its  purple  light — 
By  sweet  Val  d'Arno's  tinted  hills — 

In  Vallombrosa's  convent  gloom — 
'Mid  Terni's  vale  of  singing  rills — 

By  deathless  lairs  in  solemn  Rome — 
In  gay  Palermo's  "  Golden  Shell" — 
At  Arethusa's  hidden  well — 

We  loiter'd  like  th'  impassion'd  sun 
That  slept  so  lovingly  on  all, 

And  made  a  home  of  every  one — 
Ruin,  and  fane,  and  waterfall — 

And  crown'd  the  dying  day  with  glory 
If  we  had  seen,  since  morn,  but  one  old  haunt  of  story. 


(132) 

We  came  with  Spring  to  Tivoli. 

My  sister  loved  its  laughing  air 
And  merry  waters,  though,  for  me, 
My  heart  was  in  another  key ; 

And  sometimes  I  could  scarcely  bear 
The  mirth  of  their  eternal  play, 

And.  like  a  child  that  longs  for  home 
When  weary  of  its  holiday, 

I  sigh'd  for  melancholy  Rome. 
Perhaps — the  fancy  haunts  me  still — 
'Twas  but  a  boding  sense  of  ill. 

It  was  a  morn,  of  such  a  day 

As  might  have  dawn'd  on  Eden  first, 
Early  in  the  Italian  May. 

Vine-leaf  and  flower  had  newly  burst, 
And  on  the  burthen  of  the  air 
The  breath  of  buds  came  faint  and  rare  ; 

And  far  in  the  transparent  sky 
The  small,  earth-keeping  birds  were  seen 

Soaring  deliriously  high ; 
And  through  the  clefts  of  newer  green 

Yon  waters  dash'd  their  living  pearls ; 
And  with  a  gayer  smile  and  bow 

Troop'd  on  the  merry  village-girls ; 
And  from  the  Contadino's  brow 

The  low-slouch'd  hat  was  backward  thrown, 

With  air  that  scarcely  seem'd  his  own  ; 
And  Melanie,  with  lips  apart, 

And  clasped  hands  upon  my  arm, 


(133) 

Flung  open  her  impassion'd  heart, 

And  bless'd  life's  mere  and  breathing  charm  ; 
And  sang  old  songs,  and  gather'd  flowers, 
And  passionately  bless'd  once  more  life's  thrilling  hours. 

In  happiness  and  idleness 

We  wander'd  down  yon  sunny  vale — 
Oh  mocking  eyes  ! — a  golden  tress 

Floats  back  upon  this  summer  gale  ! 
A  foot  is  tripping  on  the  grass  ! 

A  laugh  rings  merry  in  mine  ear  ! 
I  see  a  bounding  shadow  pass  ! — 

O  God  !  my  sister  once  was  here  ! 
Come  with  me,  friend  ! — We  rested  yon  ! 

There  grew  a  flower  she  pluck'd  and  wore  ! 
She  sat  upon  this  mossy  stone — 

That  broken  fountain  running  o'er 
With  the  same  ring,  like  silver  bells. 

She  listen'd  to  its  babbling  flow, 
And  said,  "  Perhaps  the  gossip  tells 

Some  fountain-nymph's  love-story  now  !" 
And  as  her  laugh  rang  clear  and  wild, 
A  youth — a  painter — pass'd  and  smiled. 

He  gave  the  greeting  of  the  morn 
With  voice  that  linger'd  in  mine  ear. 

I  knew  him  sad  and  gentle  born 

By  those  two  words — so  calm  and  clear. 

His  frame  was  slight,  his  forehead  high 
And  swept  by  threads  of  raven  hair, 


(134) 

The  fire  of  thought  was  in  his  eye, 
And  he  was  pale  and  marble  fair, 

And  Grecian  chisel  never  caught 

The  soul  in  those  slight  features  wrought. 
I  watch'd  his  graceful  step  of  pride, 

Till  hidden  by  yon  leaning  tree, 
And  loved  him  ere  the  echo  died ; 

And  so,  alas  !  did  Melanie  ! 

We  sat  and  watch'd  the  fount  awhile 

In  silence,  but  our  thoughts  were  one  ; 
And  then  arose,  and,  with  a  smile 

Of  sympathy,  we  saunter'd  on  ; 
And  she  by  sudden  fits  was  gay, 
And  then  her  laughter  died  away, 

And  in  this  changefulness  of  mood, 
(Forgotten  now  those  May-day  spells,) 

We  turn'd  where  Varro's  villa  stood, 
And  gazing  on  the  Cascatelles, 

(Whose  hurrying  waters  wild  and  white 

Seem  madden'd  as  they  burst  to  light,) 
I  chanced  to  turn  my  eyes  away, 

And  lo  !  upon  a  bank,  alone, 
The  youthful  painter,  sleeping,  lay  ! 

His  pencils  on  the  grass  were  thrown, 
And  by  his  side  a  sketch  was  flung, 

And  near  him  as  I  lightly  crept, 

To  see  the  picture  as  he  slept, 
Upon  his  feet  he  lightly  sprung  ; 

And,  gazing  with  a  wild  surprise, 


(  135  ) 

Upon  the  face  of  Melanie, 

He  said — and  dropp'd  his  earnest  eyes — 
"  Forgive  me  !  but  I  dream'd  of  thee  !" 
His  sketch,  the  while,  was  in  my  hand, 

And,  for  the  lines  I  look'd  to  trace — 
A  torrent  by  a  palace  spann'd, 
Half  classic  and  half  fairy-land — 

I  only  found — my  sister's  face  ! 


m. 

Our  life  was  changed.     Another  love 

In  its  lone  woof  began  to  twine  ; 
But  ah  !  the  golden  thread  was  wove 

Between  my  sister's  heart  and  mine  ! 
She  who  had  lived  for  me  before — 

She  who  had  smiled  for  me  alone — 
Would  live  and  smile  for  me  no  more ! 

The  echo  to  my  heart  was  gone  ! 
It  seem'd  to  me  the  very  skies 
Had  shone  through  those  averted  eyes  ; 

The  air  had  breathed  of  balm — the  flower 
Of  radiant  beauty  seem'd  to  be — 

But  as  she  loved  them,  hour  by  hour, 
And  murmur'd  of  that  love  to  me  ! 
Oh,  though  it  be  so  heavenly  high 

The  selfishness  of  earth  above, 
That,  of  the  watchers  in  the  sky, 

He  sleeps  who  guards  a  brother's  love— 
Though  to  a  sister's  present  weal 


(136) 

The  deep  devotion  far  transcends 
The  utmost  that  the  soul  can  feel 

For  even  its  own  higher  ends — 
Though  next  to  God,  and  more  than  heaven 
For  his  own  sake,  he  loves  her,  even — 

'Tis  difficult  to  see  another, 
A  passing  stranger  of  a  day, 

Who  never  hath  been  friend  or  brother, 
Pluck  with  a  look  her  heart  away — 

To  see  the  fair,  unsullied  brow, 
Ne'er  kiss'd  before  without  a  prayer, 

Upon  a  stranger's  bosom  now, 
Who  for  the  boon  took  little  care — 

Who  is  enrich'd,  he  knows  not  why — 
Who  suddenly  hath  found  a  treasure 

Golconda  were  too  poor  to  buy, 
And  he,  perhaps,  too  cold  to  measure — 
(Albeit,  in  her  forgetful  dream, 
Th'  unconscious  idol  happier  seem,) 

'Tis  difficult  at  once  to  crush 
The  rebel  mourner  in  the  breast, 

To  press  the  heart  to  earth,  and  hush 
Its  bitter  jealousy  to  rest — 

And  difficult — the  eye  gets  dim, 

The  lip  wants  power — to  smile  on  Jam  f 

I  thank  sweet  Mary  Mother  now, 

Who  gave  me  strength  those  pangs  to  hide 
And  touch'd  mine  eyes  and  lit  my  brow 

With  sunshine  that  my  heart  belied. 


(137) 

I  never  spoke  of  wealth  or  race 

To  one  who  ask'd  so  much  from  me — 

I  look'd  but  in  my  sister's  face, 

And  mused  if  she  would  happier  be  ; 

And  hour  by  hour,  and  day  by  day, 
I  loved  the  gentle  painter  more, 
And,  in  the  same  soft  measure,  wore 

My  selfish  jealousy  away  ; 

And  I  began  to  watch  his  mood, 

And  feel,  with  her,  love's  trembling  care, 
And  bade  God  bless  him  as  he  woo'd 

That  loving  girl  so  fond  and  fair. 

And  on  my  mind  would  sometimes  press 
A  fear  that  she  might  love  him  less. 

But  Melanie — I  little  dream'd 

What  spells  the  stirring  heart  may  move — 
Pygmalion's  statue  never  seem'd 

More  changed  with  life,  than  she  with  love  ! 
The  pearl-tint  of  the  early  dawn 

Flush'd  into  day-spring's  rosy  hue — 
The  meek,  moss- folded  bud  of  morn 

Flung  open  to  the  light  and  dew — 
The  first  and  half-seen  star  of  even 
Wax'd  clear  amid  the  deepening  heaven — 

Similitudes  perchance  may  be  ! 
But  these  are  changes  oftener  seen, 

And  do  not  image  half  to  me 
My  sister's  change  of  face  and  mien. 


(138) 

'Twas  written  in  her  very  air 

That  Love  had  pass'd  and  enter 'd  there. 


IV. 

A  calm  and  lovely  paradise 

Is  Italy,  for  minds  at  ease. 
The  sadness  of  its  sunny  skies 

Weighs  not  upon  the  lives  of  these. 
The  ruin'd  aisle,  the  crumbling  fane, 

The  broken  column,  vast  and  prone — 
It  may  be  joy — it  may  be  pain — 

Amid  such  wrecks  to  walk  alone  f 
The  saddest  man  will  sadder  be, 

The  gentlest  lover  gentler  there — 
As  if,  whate'er  the  spirit's  key, 

It  strengthen'd  in  that  solemn  air. 

The  heart  soon  grows  to  mournful  things, 

And  Italy  has  not  a  breeze 
But  comes  on  melancholy  wings  j 

And  even  her  majestic  trees 
Stand  ghostlike  in  the  Caesars'  home, 

As  if  their  conscious  roots  were  set 
In  the  old  graves  of  giant  Rome, 

And  drew  their  sap  all  kingly  yet  ! 
And  every  stone  your  feet  beneath 

Is  broken  from  some  mighty  thought  ; 
And  sculptures  in  the  dust  still  breathe 

The  fire  with  which  their  lines  were  wrought 


(139) 

And  sunder'd  arch,  and  plunder'd  tomb 
Still  thunder  back  the  echo,  "  Rome  !" 

Yet,  gaily  o'er  Egeria's  fount 

The  ivy  flings  its  emerald  veil, 
And  flowers  grow  fair  on  Numa's  mount, 

And  light-sprung  arches  span  the  dale  ; 
And  soft,  from  Caracalla's  baths, 

The  herdsman's  song  comes  down  the  breeze, 
While  climb  his  goats  the  giddy  paths 

To  grass-grown  architrave  and  frieze  ; 
And  gracefully  Albano's  hill 

Curves  into  the  horizon's  line  ; 
And  sweetly  sings  that  classic  rill  ; 

And  fairly  stands  that  nameless  shrine  ; 
And  here,  oh,  many  a  sultry  noon 
And  starry  eve,  that  happy  June, 

Came  Angelo  and  Melanie  ! 
And  earth  for  us  was  all  in  tune — 
For  while  Love  talk'd  with  them,  Hope  walk'd  apart 
with  me  I 


v. 

I  shrink  from  the  embitter'd  close 

Of  my  own  melancholy  tale. 
'Tis  long  since  I  have  waked  my  woes — 

And  nerve  and  voice  together  fail  ! 
The  throb  beats  faster  at  my  brow, 

My  brain  feels  warm  with  starting  tears, 


(140) 

And  I  shall  weep — but  heed  not  thou  ! 

'Twill  soothe  awhile  the  ache  of  years  ! 
The  heart  transfix'd — worn  out  with  grief — 
Will  turn  the  arrow  for  relief. 

The  painter  was  a  child  of  shame  ! 

It  stirr'd  my  pride  to  know  it  first, 
For  I  had  questioned  but  his  name, 

And  thought,  alas  !  I  knew  the  worst, 
Believing  him  unknown  and  poor. 
His  blood,  indeed,  was  not  obscure  ; 

A  high-born  Conti  was  his  mother, 
But,  though  he  knew  one  parent's  face, 

He  never  had  beheld  the  other, 
Nor  knew  his  country  or  his  race. 

The  Roman  hid  his  daughter's  shame 
Within  St.  Mona's  convent  wall, 

And  gave  the  boy  a  painter's  name — 
And  little  else  to  live  withal  ! 

And,  with  a  noble's  high  desires 
Forever  mounting  in  his  heart, 

The  boy  consumed  with  hidden  fires, 
But  wrought  in  silence  at  his  art  ; 

And  sometimes  at  St.  Mona's  shrine, 
Worn  thin  with  penance  harsh  and  long, 

He  saw  his  mother's  form  divine, 
And  loved  her  for  their  mutual  wrong. 
I  said  my  pride  was  stirr'd — but  no  ! 

The  voice  that  told  its  bitter  tale 
Was  touch'd  so  mournfully  with  wo, 


(141) 

And,  as  he  ceased,  all  deathly  pale, 
He  loosed  the  hand  of  Melanie, 
And  gazed  so  gaspingly  on  me — 

The  demon  in  my  bosom  died  ! 
"  Not  thine,"  I  said,  "  another's  guilt ; 

I  break  no  hearts  for  silly  pride  ; 
So,  kiss  yon  weeper  if  thou  wilt  I" 


VI. 

St.  Mona's  morning  mass  was  done, 

The  shrine-lamps  struggled  with  the  day  ; 
And  rising  slowly,  one  by  one, 

Stole  the  last  worshippers  away. 
The  organist  play'd  out  the  hymn, 

The  incense,  to  St.  Mary  swung, 
Had  mounted  to  the  cherubim, 

Or  to  the  pillars  thinly  clung  ; 
And  boyish  chorister  replaced 

The  missal  that  was  read  no  more, 
And  closed,  with  half  irreverent  haste, 

Confessional  and  chancel  door  ; 
And  as,  through  aisle  and  oriel  pane, 

The  sun  wore  round  his  slanting  beam, 
The  dying  martyr  stirr'd  again, 

And  warriors  battled  in  its  gleam  ; 
And  costly  tomb  and  sculptured  knight 
Show'd  warm  and  wondrous  in  the  light. 

I  have  not  said  that  Melanie 
Was  radiantly  fair — 


(142) 

This  earth  again  may  never  see 

A  loveliness  so  rare  ! 
She  glided  up  St.  Mona's  aisle 

That  morning  as  a  bride, 
And,  full  as  was  my  heart  the  while, 

I  bless'd  her  in  my  pride  ! 
The  fountain  may  not  fail  the  less 

Whose  sands  are  golden  ore, 
And  a  sister  for  her  loveliness, 

May  not  be  loved  the  more  ; 
But  as,  the  fount's  full  heart  beneath, 

Those  golden  sparkles  shine, 
My  sister's  beauty  seem'd  to  breathe 

Its  brightness  over  mine  ! 

St.  Mona  has  a  chapel  dim 

Within  the  altar's  fretted  pale, 
Where  faintly  comes  the  swelling  hymn, 

And  dies,  half  lost,  the  anthem's  wail. 
And  here,  in  twilight  meet  for  prayer, 

A  single  lamp  hangs  o'er  the  shrine, 
And  Raphael's  Mary,  soft  and  fair, 

Looks  down  with  sweetness  half  divine, 
And  here  St.  Mona's  nuns  alway 
Through  latticed  bars  are  seen  to  pray. 

Ave  and  sacrament  were  o'er, 

And  Angelo  and  Melanie 
Still  knelt  the  holy  shrine  before  ; 

But  prayer  that  morn  was  not  for  me  I 


(143) 

My  heart  was  lock'd  !     The  lip  might  stir, 

The  frame  might  agonize— and  yet, 
Oh  God  !  I  could  not  pray  for  her  ! 
A  seal  upon  my  brow  was  set — 
My  brow  was  hot — my  brain  oppress'd — 
And   fiends   seem'd   muttering   round,    "  Your   bridal    is 
unblest  !" 

With  forehead  to  the  lattice  laid, 

And  thin,  white  fingers  straining  through, 
A  nun  the  while  had  softly  pray'd. 

Oh,  even  in  prayer  that  voice  I  knew  ! 
Each  faltering  word — each  mournful  tone — 

Each  pleading  cadence,  half  suppress'd — 
Such  music  had  its  like  alone 

On  lips  that  stole  it  at  her  breast  ! 
And  ere  the  orison  was  done 
I  loved  the  mother  as  the  son  ! 

And  now,  the  marriage  vows  to  hear, 

The  nun  unveil 'd  her  brow — 
When,  sudden,  to  my  startled  ear, 
There  crept  a  whisper,  hoarse  like  fear, 

"  De  Brevern  !  is  it  fhou  /" 
The  priest  let  fall  the  golden  ring, 

The  bridegroom  stood  aghast, 
While,  like  some  weird  and  frantic  thing, 

The  nun  was  muttering  fast ; 
And  as,  in  dread,  I  nearer  drew, 
She  thrust  her  arms  the  lattice  through, 


(144) 

And  held  me  to  her  straining  view — 

But  suddenly  begun 
To  steal  upon  her  brain  a  light 
That  stagger'd  soul,  and  sense,  and  sight, 
And,  with  a  mouth  all  ashy  white, 

She  shriek'd,  "  It  is  his  son  ! 
The  bridegroom  is  thy  blood — thy  brother  f 
Rodolph  de  Brevern  wrong* d  his  mother  /" 

And,  as  that  doom  of  love  was  heard, 
My  sister  sunk — and  died — without  a  sign  or  word 


I  shed  no  tear  for  her.     She  died 

With  her  last  sunshine  in  her  eyes. 
Earth  held  for  her  no  joy  beside 

The  hope  just  shattered — and  she  lies 
In  a  green  nook  of  yonder  dell  ; 

And  near  her,  in  a  newer  bed, 
Her  lover — brother — sleeps  as  well  ! 

Peace  to  the  broken-hearted  dead  ! 


(145) 


LORD  IVON  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 

"  Dost  thou  despise 

A  love  like  this  ?    A  lady  should  not  scorn 
One  soul  that  loves  her,  howe'er  lowly  it  be." 

LORD   IVON. 

How  beautiful  it  is  !     Come  here,  my  daughter  ! 
Is't  not  a  face  of  most  bewildering  brightness  ? 

ISIDORE. 

The  features  are  all  fair,  sir,  but  so  cold — 
I  could  not  love  such  beauty  ! 

LORD  IVON. 

Yet,  e'en  so 

Look'd  thy  lost  mother,  Isidore  !     Her  brow 
Lofty  like  this — her  lips  thus  delicate, 
Yet,  icy  cold  in  their  slight  vermeil  threads- — 
Her  neck  thus  queenly,  and  the  sweeping  curve 
Thus  matchless,  from  the  small  and  "  pearl  round  ear" 
To  the  o'er-polish'd  shoulder.     Never  swan 
Dream'd  on  the  water  with  a  grace  so  calm  ! 

ISIDORE. 
And  was  she  proud,  sir  ? 


(146) 


LORD   IVON. 

Or  I  had  not  loved  her. 

ISIDORE. 

Then  runs  my  lesson  wrong.     I  ever  read 
Pride  was  unlovely. 

LORD   IVON. 

Dost  thou  prate  already 

Of  books,  my  little  one  ?     Nay,  then,  'tis  time 
That  a  sad  tale  were  told  thee.     Is  thy  bird 
Fed  for  the  day  ?     Canst  thou  forget  the  rein 
Of  thy  beloved  Arabian  for  an  hour, 
And,  the  first  time  in  all  thy  sunny  life, 
Take  sadness  to  thy  heart  ?     Wilt  listen,  sweet  ? 

ISIDORE. 
Hang  I  not  ever  on  thy  lips,  dear  father  ? 

LORD  IVON. 

As  thou  didst  enter,  I  was  musing  here 
Upon  this  picture.     'Tis  the  face  of  one 
I  never  knew  ;  but,  for  its  glorious  pride, 
I  bought  it  of  the  painter.     There  has  hung 
Ever  the  cunning  curse  upon  my  soul 
To  love  this  look  in  woman.     Not  the  flower 
Of  all  Arcadia,  in  the  Age  of  Gold, 
Looked  she  a  shepherdess,  would  be  to  me 
More  than  the  birds  are.     As  th'  astrologer 
Worships  the  half-seen  star  that  in  its  sphere 


(147) 

Dreams  not  of  him,  and  tramples  on  the  lily 
That  flings,  unask'd,  its  fragrance  in  his  way, 
Yet  both  (as  are  the  high-born  and  the  low) 
Wrought  of  the  same  fine  Hand — so,  daringly, 
Flew  my  boy-hopes  beyond  me.     You  are  here 
In  a  brave  palace,  Isidore  !     The  gem 
That  sparkles  in  your  hair  imprisons  light 
Drunk  in  the  flaming  Orient  ;  and  gold 
Waits  on  the  bidding  of  those  girlish  lips 
In  measure  that  Aladdin  never  knew. 
Yet  was  I — lowly  born  ! 

ISIDORE. 

Lord  Ivon  ! 

LORD  IVON. 

Ay, 

You  wonder ;  but  I  tell  you  that  the  lord 
Of  this  tall  palace  was  a  peasant's  child  ! 
And,  looking  sometimes  on  his  fair  domain, 
Thy  sire  bethinks  him  of  a  sickly  boy, 
Nursed  by  his  mother  on  a  mountain  side, 
His  only  wealth  a  book  of  poetry, 
With  which  he  daily  crept  into  the  sun, 
To  cheat  sharp  pains  with  the  bewildering  dream 
Of  beauty  he  had  only  read  of  there. 

ISIDORE. 
Have  you  the  volume  still,  sir  ? 


(148) 

LORD   IVON. 

'Twas  the  gift 

Of  a  poor  scholar  wandering  in  the  hills, 
Who  pitied  my  sick  idleness.     I  fed 
My  inmost  soul  upon  the  witching  rhyme — 
A  silly  tale  of  a  low  minstrel  boy, 
Who  broke  his  heart  in  singing  at  a  bridal. 

ISIDORE. 
Loved  he  the  lady,  sir  ? 

LORD  IVON. 

So  ran  the  tale. 
How  well  I  do  remember  it  ! 

ISIDORE. 

Alas! 
Poor  youth  ! 

LORD  IVON. 

I  never  thought  to  pity  him. 
The  bride  was  a  duke's  sister  ;  and  I  mused 
Upon  the  wonder  of  hisr*daring  love, 
Till  my  heart  changed  within  me.     I  became 
Restless  and  sad  ;  and  in  my  sleep  I  saw 
Beautiful  dames  all  scornfully  go  by  ; 
And  one  o'er-weary  morn  I  crept  away 
Into  the  glen,  and,  flung  upon  a  rock, 
Over  a  torrent  whose  swift,  giddy  waters 
FilFd  me  with  energy,  I  swore  my  soul 


(149) 

To  better  that  false  vision,  if  there  were 
Manhood  or  fire  within  my  wretched  frame. 
I  turn'd  me  homeward  with  the  sunset  hour, 
Changed — for  the  thought  had  conquer'd  even  disease  ; 
And  my  poor  mother  check'd  her  busy  wheel 
To  wonder  at  the  step  with  which  I  came. 

Oh,  heavens  !  that  soft  and  dewy  April  eve, 
When,  in  a  minstrel's  garb,  but  with  a  heart 
As  lofty  as  the  marble  shafts  uprear'd 
Beneath  the  stately  portico,.  I  stood 
At  this  same  palace  door  ! 


A  minstrel  boy  ! 


ISIDORE. 

Our  own  !  and  you 


LORD   IVON. 

Yes — I  had  wander'd  far 
Since  I  shook  off  my  sickness  in  the  hills, 
And,  with  some  cunning  on  the  lute,  had  learn'd 
A  subtler  lesson  than  humility 
In  the  quick  school  of  want.     A  menial  stood 
By  the  Egyptian  sphinx  ;  and  when  I  came 
And  pray'd  to  sing  beneath  the  balcony 
A  song  of  love  for  a  fair  lady's  ear, 
He  insolently  bade  me  to  begone. 
Listening  not,  I  swept  my  fingers  o'er 
The  strings  in  prelude,  when  the  base-born  slave 
Struck  me  ! 


(150) 

ISIDORE. 

Impossible  ! 

LORD   IVON. 

I  dash'd  my  lute 

Into  his  face,  and  o'er  the  threshold  flew  ; 
And  threading  rapidly  the  lofty  rooms, 
Sought  vainly  for  his  master.     Suddenly 
A  wing  rush'd  o'er  me,  and  a  radiant  girl, 
Young  as  myself,  but  fairer  than  the  dream 
Of  my  most  wild  imagining,  sprang  forth, 
Chasing  a  dove,  that,  'wilder'd  with  pursuit, 
Dropp'd  breathless  on  my  bosom. 


ISIDORE. 

Nay,  dear  father  ! 


Was't  so  indeed  ? 


LORD    IVON. 

I  thank'd  my  blessed  star  ! 
And,  as  the  fair,  transcendent  creature  stood 
Silent  with  wonder,  I  resign'd  the  bird 
To  her  white  hands  :  and,  with  a  rapid  thought, 
And  lips  already  eloquent  of  love, 
Turn'd  the  strange  chance  to  a  similitude 
Of  my  own  story.     Her  slight,  haughty  lip 
Curl'd  at  the  warm  recital  of  my  wrong, 
And  on  the  ivory  oval  of  her  cheek 
The  rose  flush'd  outward  with  a  deeper  red  ; 
And  from  that  hour  the  minstrel  was  at  home, 


(151) 

And  horse  and  hound  were  his,  and  none  might  cross 
The  minion  of  the  noble  Lady  Clare. 
Art  weary  of  my  tale  ? 

ISIDORE. 

Dear  father  ! 

LORD   IVON. 

Well! 

A  summer,  and  a  winter,  and  a  spring, 
Went  over  me  like  brief  and  noteless  hours. 
Forever  at  the  side  of  one  who  grew 
With  every  morn  more  beautiful  ;  the  slave, 
Willing  and  quick,  of  every  idle  whim  ; 
Singing  for  no  one's  bidding  but  her  own, 
And  then  a  song  from  my  own  passionate  heart, 
Sung  with  a  lip  of  fire,  but  ever  named 
As  an  old  rhyme  that  I  had  chanced  to  hear  ; 
Riding  beside  her,  sleeping  at  her  door, 
Doing  her  maddest  bidding  at  the  risk 
Of  life — what  marvel  if  at  last  I  grew 
Presumptuous  ? 

A  messenger  one  morn 

Spurr'd  through  the  gate — "  A  revel  at  the  court  ! 
And  many  minstrels,  come  from  many  lands, 
Will  try  their  harps  in  presence  of  the  king  ; 
And  'tis  the  royal  pleasure  that  my  lord 
Come  with  the  young  and  lovely  Lady  Clare, 


Robed  as  the  queen  of  Faery,  who  shall  crown 
The  victor  with  his  bays." 

Pass  over  all 

To  that  bewildering  day.     She  sat  enthroned 
Amid  the  court  ;  and  never  twilight  star 
Sprang  with  such  sweet  surprise  upon  the  eye, 
As  she  with  her  rare  beauty  on  the  gaze 
Of  the  gay  multitude.     The  minstrels  changed 
Their  studied  songs,  and  chose  her  for  a  theme  j 
And  ever  at  the  pause  all  eyes  upturned 
And  fed  upon  her  loveliness. 

The  last 

Long  lay  was  ended,  and  the  silent  crowd 
Waited  the  king's  award — when  suddenly 
The  sharp  strings  of  a  lyre  were  swept  without, 
And  a  clear  voice  claim'd  hearing  for  a  bard 
Belated  on  his  journey.     Mask'd,  and  clad 
In  a  long  stole,  the  herald  led  me  in. 
A  thousand  eyes  were  on  me  :  but  I  saw 
The  new-throned  queen,  in  her  high  place,  alone  ; 
And,  kneeling  at  her  feet,  I  press'd  my  brow 
Upon  her  footstool,  till  the  images 
Of  my  past  hours  rush'd  thick  upon  my  brain  ; 
Then,  rising  hastily,  I  struck  my  lyre  ; 
And,  in  a  story  woven  of  my  own, 
I  so  did  paint  her  in  her  loveliness — 
Pouring  my  heart  all  out  upon  the  lines 
I  knew  too  faithfully,  and  lavishing 


(153) 

The  hoarded  fire  of  a  whole  age  of  love 
Upon  each  passionate  word,  that,  as  I  sunk 
Exhausted  at  the  close,  the  ravish'd  crowd 
Flung  gold  and  flowers  on  my  still  quivering  lyre 
And  the  moved  monarch  in  his  gladness  swore 
There  was  no  boon  beneath  his  kingly  crown 
Too  high  for  such  a  minstrel  ! 

Did  my  star 

Speak  in  my  fainting  ear  ?     Heard  I  the  king  ? 
Or  did  the  audible  pulses  of  my  heart 
Seem  to  me  so  articulate  ?     I  rose, 
And  tore  my  mask  away  ;  and,  as  the  stole 
Dropp'd  from  my  shoulders,  I  glanced  hurriedly 
A  look  upon  the  face  of  Lady  Clare. 
It  was  enough  !     I  saw  that  she  was  changed — 
That  a  brief  hour  had  chill'd  the  open  child 
To  calculating  woman — that  she  read 
With  cold  displeasure  my  o'er-daring  thought ; 
And  on  that  brow,  to  me  as  legible 
As  stars  to  the  rapt  Arab,  I  could  trace 
The  scorn  that  waited  on  me  !     Sick  of  life, 
Yet,  even  then,  with  a  half-rallied  hope 
Prompting  my  faltering  tongue,  I  blindly  knelt, 
And  claim'd  the  king's  fair  promise — 

ISIDORE. 

For  the  hand 
Of  Lady  Clare  ? 


(154) 

LORD   IVON. 

No,  sweet  one — for  a  sword. 

ISIDORE. 

You  surely  spoke  to  her  ? 

LORD    IVON. 

I  saw  her  face 

No  more  for  years.     I  went  unto  the  wars  ; 
And  when  again  I  sought  that  palace  door, 
A  glory  heralded  the  minstrel  boy 
That  monarchs  might  have  envied. 


ISIDORE. 


Was  she  there  ? 


LORD   IVON. 

Yes— and,  O  God  !  how  beautiful  !     The  last, 
The  ripest  seal  of  loveliness,  was  set 
Upon  her  form  ;  and  the  all-glorious  pride 
That  I  had  worshipp'd  on  her  girlish  lip, 
When  her  scared  dove  fled  to  me,  was  matured 
Into  a  queenly  grace  ;  and  nobleness 
Was  bound  like  a  tiara  to  her  brow, 
And  every  motion  breathed  of  it.     There  lived 
Nothing  on  earth  so  ravishingly  fair. 

.   ISIDORE. 
And  you  still  loved  her  ? 


(  155  ) 

LORD  I  VON. 

I  had  perill'd  life 

In  every  shape — had  battled  on  the  sea, 
And  burnt  upon  the  desert,  and  outgone 
Spirits  most  mad  for  glory,  with  this  one 
O'ermastering  hope  upon  me.     Honor,  fame, 
Gold,  even,  were  as  dust  beneath  my  feet  ; 
And  war  was  my  disgust,  though  I  had  sought 
Its  horrors  like  a  bloodhound — for  her  praise. 
My  life  was  drunk  up  with  the  love  of  her. 

ISIDORE. 
And  now  she  scorn'd  you  not  ? 

LORD  IVON. 

Worse,  Isidore  ! 

She  pitied  me  !     I  did  not  need  a  voice 
To  tell  my  love.     She  knew  her  sometime  minion — 
And  felt  that  she  should  never  be  adored 
With  such  idolatry  as  his,  and  sigh'd 
That  hearts  so  true  beat  not  in  palaces — • 
But  I  was  poor,  with  all  my  bright  renown, 
And  lowly  born  ;  and  she — the  Lady  Clare  I 

ISIDORE. 
She  could  not  tell  you  this  ? 

LORD    IVON. 

She  broke  my  heart 


(156) 

As  kindly  as  the  fisher  hooks  the  worm — 
Pitying  me  the  while  ! 

ISIDORE. 
And  you — 

LORD  FVON. 

Lived  on  ! 

But  the  remembrance  irks  me,  and  my  throat 
Chokes  with  the  utterance  ! 

ISIDORE. 

Dear  father  I 

LORD  IVON. 

Nay- 
Thanks  to  sweet  Mary  Mother,  it  is  past  ; 
And  in  this  world  I  shall  have  no  more  need 
To  speak  of  it. 

ISIDORE. 

But  there  were  brighter  days 
In  store.     My  mother  and  this  palace — 

LORD  IVON. 

You  outrun 

My  tale,  dear  Isidore  I     But  'tis  as  well. 
I  would  not  linger  on  it. 

Twenty  years 

From  this  heart-broken  hour,  I  stood  again, 
An  old  man  and  a  stranger,  at  the  door 


(157) 

Of  this  same  palace.     I  had  been  a  slave 

For  gold  that  time  !     My  star  had  wrought  with  me ! 

And  I  was  richer  than  the  wizard  king 

Throned  in  the  mines  of  Ind.     I  could  not  look 

On  my  innumerable  gems,  the  glare 

Pain'd  so  my  sun-struck  eyes  !     My  gold  was  countless. 

ISIDORE. 
And  Lady  Clare  ? 

LORD  IVON. 

I  met  upon  the  threshold 
Her  very  self — all  youth,  all  loveliness — 
So  like  the  fresh-kept  picture  in  my  brain, 
That  for  a  moment  I  forgot  all  else, 
And  stagger'd  back  and  wept.     She  pass'd  me  by 
With  a  cold  look — 

ISIDORE. 

Oh  !  not  the  Lady  Clare  ! 

LORD   IVON. 

Her  daughter,  yet  herself!    But  what  a  change 
Waited  me  here  !     My  thin  and  grizzled  locks 
Were  fairer  now  than  the  young  minstrel's  curls — 
My  sun-burnt  visage  and  contracted  eye 
Than  the  gay  soldier  with  his  gallant  mien  ! 
My  words  were  wit,  my  looks  interpreted  ; 
And  Lady  Clare — I  tell  you,  Lady  Clare 
Lean'd  fondly — fondly  !  on  my  wasted  arm. 


(158) 

0  God  !  how  changed  my  nature  with  all  this  ! 
I,  that  had  been  all  love  and  tenderness — 
The  truest  and  most  gentle  heart,  till  now, 
That  ever  beat — grew  suddenly  a  devil  f 

1  bought  me  lands,  and  titles,  and  received 
Men's  homage  with  a  smooth  hypocrisy  ; 
And — you  will  scarce  believe  me,  Isidore — 

I  suffer'd  them  to  wile  their  peerless  daughter, 
The  image  and  the  pride  of  Lady  Clare, 
To  wed  me  ! 

ISIDORE. 
Sir  !  you  did  not  ! 

LORD   I  VON. 

Ay  !  I  saw 

Th'  indignant  anger  when  her  mother  first 
Broke  the  repulsive  wish,  and  the  degrees 
Of  shuddering  reluctance  as  her  mind 
Admitted  the  intoxicating  tales 
Of  wealth  unlimited.     And  when  she  look'd 
On  my  age-stricken  features,  and  my  form, 
Wasted  before  its  time,  and  turn'd  away 
To  hide  from  me  her  tears,  her  very  mother 
Whisper'd  the  cursed  comfort  in  her  ear 
That  made  her  what  she  is  ! 


ISIDORE. 

You  could  not  wed  her, 


Knowing  all  this  ! 


LORD   IVON. 

I  felt  that  I  had  lost 

My  life  else.     I  had  wrung,  for  forty  years, 
My  frame  to  its  last  withers  ;  I  had  flung 
My  boyhood's  fire  away — the  energy 
Of  a  most  sinless  youth — the  toil,  and  fret, 
And  agony  of  manhood.     I  had  dared, 
Fought,  suffer'd,  slaved — and  never  for  an  hour 
Forgot  or  swerved  from  my  resolve  ;  and  now — 
With  the  delirious  draught  upon  my  lips — 
Dash  down  the  cup ! 

ISIDORE. 
Yet  she  had  never  wrong'd  you  ! 

LORD  IVON. 

Thou'rt  pleading  for  thy  mother,  my  sweet  child  ! 
And  angels  hear  thee.     But,  if  she  was  wrong'd, 
The  sin  be  on  the  pride  that  sells  its  blood 
Coldly  and  only  for  this  damning  gold. 
Had  I  not  ofFer'd  youth  first  ?     Came  I  not, 
With  my  hands  brimm'd  with  glory,  to  buy  love — 
And  was  I  not  denied  ? 

ISIDORE. 

Yet,  dearest  father, 
They  forced  her  not  to  wed  ? 

LORD  IVON. 

I  call'd  her  back 


(160) 

Myself  from  the  church  threshold,  and,  before 

Her  mother  and  her  kinsmen,  bade  her  swear 

It  was  her  own  free  choice  to  marry  me. 

I  show'd  her  my  shrunk  hand,  and  bade  her  think 

If  that  was  like  a  bridegroom,  and  beware 

Of  perjuring  her  chaste  and  spotless  soul, 

If  now  she  loved  me  not. 

ISIDORE. 

What  said  she,  sir  ? 

LORD  rvoN. 

Oh  !  they  had  made  her  even  as  themselves  ; 
And  her  young  heart  was  colder  than  the  slab 
Unsunn'd  beneath  Pentelicus.     She  press'd 
My  wither'd  fingers  in  her  dewy  clasp, 
And  smiled  up  in  my  face,  and  chid  "my  lord" 
For  his  wild  fancies,  and  led  on  ! 

ISIDORE. 

And  no 
Misgiving  at  the  altar  ? 

LORD  IVON. 

None  !     She  swore 

To  love  and  cherish  me  till  death  should  part  us, 
With  a  voice  clear  as  mine. 

ISIDORE. 

And  kept  it,  father  ! 
In  mercy  tell  me  so  ! 


(161) 

LORD    IVON. 

She  lives,  my  daughter  ! 


Long  ere  my  babe  was  born,  my  pride  had  ebb'd, 

And  let  my  heart  down  to  its  better  founts 

Of  tenderness.     I  had  no  friends — not  one  ! 

My  love  gush'd  to  my  wife.     I  rack'd  my  brain 

To  find  her  a  new  pleasure  every  hour — 

Yet  not  with  me — I  fear'd  to  haunt  her  eye  ! 

Only  at  night,  when  she  was  slumbering 

In  all  her  beauty,  I  would  put  away 

The  curtains  till  the  pale  night-lamp  shone  on  her, 

And  watch  her  through  my  tears. 

One  night  her  lips 

Parted  as  I  gazed  on  them,  and  the  name 
Of  a  young  noble,  who  had  been  my  guest, 
Stole  forth  in  broken  murmurs.     I  let  fall 
The  curtains  silently,  and  left  her  there 
To  slumber  and  dream  on  ;  and  gliding  forth 
Upon  the  terrace,  knelt  to  my  pale  star, 
And  swore,  that  if  it  pleased  the  God  of  light 
To  let  me  look  upon  the  unborn  child 
Lying  beneath  her  heart,  I  would  but  press 
One  kiss  upon  its  lips,  and  take  away 
My  life — that  was  a  blight  upon  her  years. 

ISIDORE. 
I  was  that  child  ! 


(162) 

LORD   IVON. 

Yes — and  I  heard  the  cry 
Of  thy  small  "  piping  mouth"  as  'twere  a  call 
From  my  remembering  star.     I  waited  only 
Thy  mother's  strength  to  bear  the  common  shock 
Of  death  within  the  doors.     She  rose  at  last, 
And,  oh  !  so  sweetly  pale  !     And  thou,  my  child  ! 
My  heart  misgave  me  as  I  look'd  upon  thee  ; 
But  he  was  ever  at  her  side  whose  name 
She  murmur'd  in  her  sleep  ;  and,  lingering  on 
To  drink  a  little  of  thy  sweetness  more 
Before  I  died,  I  watch'd  their  stolen  love 
As  she  had  been  my  daughter,  with  a  pure, 
Passionless  joy  that  I  should  leave  her  soon 
To  love  him  as  she  would.     I  know  not  how 
To  tell  thee  more.         ***** 

*         *         *         Come,  sweet  f  she  is  not  worthy 
Of  tears  like  thine  and  mine  !         *         *         * 

*****         She  fled  and  left  me 
The  very  night  !     The  poison  was  prepared — 
And  she  had  been  a  widow  with  the  morn 
Rich  as  Golconda.     As  the  midnight  chimed, 
My  star  rose.     Gazing  on  its  mounting  orb, 
I  raised  the  chalice — but  a  weakness  came 
Over  my  heart  ;  and,  taking  up  the  lamp, 
I  glided  to  her  chamber,  and  removed 
The  curtains  for  a  last,  a  parting  look 
Upon  my  child.         ***** 


(163) 

*        *        *        *        Had  she  but  taken  thee, 
I  could  have  felt  she  had  a  mother's  heart, 
And  drain'd  the  chalice  still.     I  could  not  leave 
My  babe  alone  in  such  a  heartless  world  ! 

ISIDORE. 
Thank  God  !    Thank  God  ! 


TO  ERMENGARDE. 

I  KNOW  not  if  the  sunshine  waste — 

The  world  is  dark  since  thou  art  gone  ! 
The  hours  are,  oh  !  so  leaden-paced  ! 

The  birds  sing,  and  the  stars  float  on, 
But  sing  not  well,  and  look  not  fair — 
A  weight  is  in  the  summer  air, 

And  sadness  in  the  sight  of  flowers ; 
And  if  I  go  where  others  smile, 

Their  love  but  makes  me  think  of  ours, 
And  heavier  gets  my  heart  the  while. 
Like  one  upon  a  desert  isle, 

I  languish  of  the  weary  hours  ; 
I  never  thought  a  life  could  be 
So  flung  upon  one  hope,  as  mine,  dear  love,  on  thee  ! 

I  sit  and  watch  the  summer  sky. 

There  comes  a  cloud  through  heaven  alone  ; 
A  thousand  stars  are  shining  nigh — 


(164) 

It  feels  no  light,  but  darkles  on  ! 
Yet  now  it  nears  the  lovelier  moon  ; 

And,  flushing  through  its  fringe  of  snow, 
There  steals  a  rosier  dye,  and  soon 

Its  bosom  is  one  fiery  glow  ! 
The  Queen  of  Light  within  it  lies  ! 

Yet  mark  how  lovers  meet  to  part ! 
The  cloud  already  onward  flies, 

And  shadows  sink  into  its  heart, 
And  (dost  thou  see  them  where  thou  art  ?) 

Fade  fast,  fade  all  those  glorious  dyes  ! 
Its  light,  like  mine,  is  seen  no  more, 
And,  like  my  own,  its  heart  seems  darker  than  before  ! 

Where  press  this  hour  those  fairy  feet  ? 

Where  look  this  hour  those  eyes  of  blue  ? 
What  music  in  thine  ear  is  sweet  ? 

What  odor  breathes  thy  lattice  through  ? 
What  word  is  on  thy  lip  ?    what  tone — 
What  look — replying  to  thine  own  ? 
Thy  steps  along  the  Danube  stray — 

Alas  !  it  seeks  an  orient  sea  ! 
Thou  wouldst  not  seem  so  far  away 

Flow'd  but  its  waters  back  to  me  ! 
I  bless  the  slowly  coming  moon 

Because  its  eye  look'd  late  in  thine ! 
I  envy  the  west  wind  of  June 

Whose  wings  will  bear  it  up  the  Rhine  ; 
The  flower  I  press  upon  my  brow 
Were  sweeter  if  its  like  perfumed  thy  chamber  now  ! 


(165) 


THE  CONFESSIONAL. 

"When  thou  hast  met  with  careless  hearts  and  cold, 
Hearts  that  young  love  may  touch,  but  never  hold — 
Not  changeless,  as  the  loved  and  left  of  old — 
Remember  me — remember  me — 
I  passionately  pray  of  thee  !" 

LADY  E.  S.  WORTLET. 

I  THOUGHT  of  thee — I  thought  of  thee, 

On  ocean  many  a  weary  night — 
When  heaved  the  long  and  sullen  sea, 

With  only  waves  and  stars  in  sight. 
We  stole  along  by  isles  of  balm, 

We  furl'd  before  the  coming  gale, 
We  slept  amid  the  breathless  calm, 

We  flew  beneath  the  straining  sail — 
But  thou  wert  lost  for  years  to  me, 
And,  day  and  night,  I  thought  of  thee  ! 

I  thought  of  thee — I  thought  of  thee, 

In  France — amid  the  gay  saloon, 
Where  eyes  as  dark  as  eyes  may  be 

Are  many  as  the  leaves  in  June — 
Where  life  is  love,  and  even  the  air 

Is  pregnant  with  impassion'd  thought, 
And  song  and  dance  and  music  are 

With  one  warm  meaning  only  fraught — 


(166) 

My  half-snared  heart  broke  lightly  free, 
And,  with  a  blush,  I  thought  of  thee  ! 

I  thought  of  thee — I  thought  of  thee, 

In  Florence, — where  the  fiery  hearts 
Of  Italy  are  breathed  away 

In  wonders  of  the  deathless  arts  ; 
Where  strays  the  Contadina  down 

Val  d'Arno  with  a  song  of  old ; 
Where  clime  and  woman  seldom  frown, 

And  life  runs  over  sands  of  gold  ; 
I  stray'd  to  lone  Fiesole* 
On  many  an  eve,  and  thought  of  thee. 

I  thought  of  thee — I  thought  of  thee, 

In  Rome, — when  on  the  Palatine 
Night  left  the  Caesars'  palace  free 

To  Time's  forgetful  foot  and  mine  ; 
Or,  on  the  Coliseum's  wall, 

When  moonlight  touch'd  the  ivied  stone, 
Reclining,  with  a  thought  of  all 

That  o'er  this  scene  has  come  and  gone 
The  shades  of  Rome  would  start  and  flee 
Unconsciously — I  thought  of  thee. 

I  thought  of  thee— I  thought  of  thee, 

In  Vallombrosa's  holy  shade, 
Where  nobles  born  the  friars  be, 

By  life's  rude  changes  humbler  made. 
Here  Milton  framed  his  Paradise  ; 


(167) 

I  slept  within  his  very  cell  ; 
And,  as  I  closed  my  weary  eyes, 

I  thought  the  cowl  would  fit  me  well — 
The  cloisters  breathed,  it  seem'd  to  me, 
Of  heart's-ease — but  I  thought  of  thee. 

I  thought  of  thee — I  thought  of  thee, 

In  Venice, — on  a  night  in  June  ; 
When,  through  the  city  of  the  sea, 

Like  dust  of  silver  slept  the  moon. 
Slow  turn'd  his  oar  the  gondolier, 

And,  as  the  black  barks  glided  by, 
The  water  to  my  leaning  ear 

Bore  back  the  lover's  passing  sigh — 
It  was  no  place  alone  to  be — 
I  thought  of  thee — I  thought  of  thee. 

I  thought  of  thee — I  thought  of  thee, 

In  the  Ionian  isles — when  straying 
With  wise  Ulysses  by  the  sea — 

Old  Homer's  songs  around  me  playing  ; 
Or,  watching  the  bewitch'd  caique, 

That  o'er  the  star-lit  waters  flew, 
I  listen'd  to  the  helmsman  Greek, 

Who  sung  the  song  that  Sappho  knew — 
The  poet's  spell,  the  bark,  the  sea, 
All  vanish'd — as  I  thought  of  thee. 

I  thought  of  thee— I  thought  of  thee, 
In  Greece— when  rose  the  Parthenon 


(168) 

Majestic  o'er  the  Egean  sea, 

And  heroes  with  it,  one  by  one  ; 

When,  in  the  grove  of  Academe, 
Where  Lais  and  Leontium  stray'd 

Discussing  Plato's  mystic  theme, 
I  lay  at  noontide  in  the  shade — 

The  Egean  wind,  the  whispering  tree, 

Had  voices — and  I  thought  of  thee. 

I  thought  of  thee — I  thought  of  thee, 

In  Asia — on  the  Dardanelles ; 
Where  swiftly  as  the  waters  flee, 

Each  wave  some  sweet  old  story  tells  ; 
And,  seated  by  the  marble  tank 

Which  sleeps  by  Ilium's  ruins  old, 
(The  fount  where  peerless  Helen  drank, 

And  Venus  laved  her  locks  of  gold,)* 
I  thrill'd  such  classic  haunts  to  see, 
Yet  even  here — I  thought  of  thee. 

I  thought  of  thee — I  thought  of  thee, 

Where  glide  the  Bosphor's  lovely  waters, 

All  palace-lined  from  sea  to  sea  ; 
And  ever  on  its  shores  the  daughters 

Of  the  delicious  East  are  seen, 

Printing  the  brink  with  slipper'd  feet. 

And  oh,  the  snowy  folds  between, 


*  In  the  Scamander, — before  contending  for  the  prize  of  beauty  on  Mount 
Ida.    Its  head  waters  fill  a  beautiful  tank  near  the  walls  of  Troy. 


(169) 

What  eyes  of  heaven  your  glances  meet ! 
Peris  of  light  no  fairer  be — 
Yet — in  Stamboul — I  thought  of  thee. 

I've  thought  of  thee — Fve  thought  of  thee, 

Through  change  that  teaches  to  forget ; 
Thy  face  looks  up  from  every  sea, 

In  every  star  thine  eyes  are  set, 
Though  roving  beneath  Orient  skies, 

Whose  golden  beauty  breathes  of  rest, 
I  envy  every  bird  that  flies 

Into  the  far  and  clouded  West : 
I  think  of  thee— I  think  of  thee  ! 
Oh,  dearest !  hast  thou  thought  of  me  ? 


FLORENCE  GRAY 

I  WAS  in  Greece.     It  was  the  hour  of  noon, 
And  the  Egean  wind  had  dropp'd  asleep 
Upon  Hymettus,  and  the  thymy  isles 
Of  Salamis  and  Egina  lay  hung 
Like  clouds  upon  the  bright  and  breathless  sea. 
I  had  climb'd  up  the  Acropolis  at  morn, 
And  hours  had  fled,  as  time  will  in  a  dream, 
Amidst  its  deathless  ruins — for  the  air 


(170) 

Is  full  of  spirits  in  these  mighty  fanes, 

And  they  walk  with  you  !     As  it  sultrier  grew, 

I  laid  me  down  within  a  shadow  deep 

Of  a  tall  column  of  the  Parthenon, 

And,  in  an  absent  idleness  of  thought, 

I  scrawl'd  upon  the  smooth  and  marble  base. 

Tell  me,  O  memory,  what  wrote  I  there  ? 

The  name  of  a  sweet  child  I  knew  at  Rome  f 

I  was  in  Asia.     'Twas  a  peerless  night 

Upon  the  plains  of  Sardis,  and  the  moon, 

Touching  my  eyelids  through  the  wind-stirr'd  tent, 

Had  witch'd  me  from  my  slumber.     I  arose 

And  silently  stole  forth,  and  by  the  brink 

Of  "  gold  Pactolus,"  where  his  waters  bathe 

The  bases  of  Cybele's  columns  fair, 

I  paced  away  the  hours.     In  wakeful  mood 

I  mused  upon  the  storied  past  awhile, 

Watching  the  moon,  that,  with  the  same  mild  eye, 

Had  look'd  upon  the  mighty  Lydian  kings 

Sleeping  around  me — Croesus,  who  had  heap'd 

Within  that  mouldering  portico  his  gold, 

And  Gyges,  buried  with  his  viewless  ring 

Beneath  yon-  swelling  tumulus — and  then 

I  loiter'd  up  the  valley  to  a  small 

And  humbler  ruin,  where  the  undefiled* 


*  "  Thou  hast  a  few  names  even  in  Sardis  which  have  not  defiled  their 
garments :  and  they  shall  walk  with  me  in  white :  for  they  are  worthy." — 
Revelation  iii.  4. 


. 


(171) 

Of  the  Apocalypse  their  garments  kept 
Spotless ;  and  crossing  with  a  conscious  awe 
The  broken  threshold,  to  my  spirit's  eye 
It  seem'd  as  if,  amid  the  moonlight,  stood 
"  The  angel  of  the  church  of  Sardis"  still  ! 
And  I  again  pass'd  onward,  and  as  dawn 
Paled  the  bright  morning-star,  I  laid  me  down 
Weary  and  sad  beside  the  river's  brink, 
And  'twixt  the  moonlight  and  the  rosy  morn, 
Wrote  with  my  finger  in  the  "  golden  sands." 
Tell  me,  O  memory,  what  wrote  I  there  ? 
The  name  of  the  sweet  child  I  knew  at  Rome  f 

The  dust  is  old  upon  my  "  sandal -shoon," 
And  still  I  am  a  pilgrim  ;  I  have  roved 
From  wild  America  to  spicy  Ind, 
And  worshipp'd  at  innumerable  shrines 
Of  beauty  ;  and  the  painter's  art,  to  me, 
And  sculpture,  speak  as  with  a  living  tongue, 
And  of  dead  kingdoms  I  recall  the  soul, 
Sitting  amid  their  ruins.     I  have  stored 
My  memory  with  thoughts  that  can  allay 
Fever  and  sadness,  and  when  life  gets  dim, 
And  I  am  overladen  in  my  years, 
Minister  to  me.     But  when  wearily 
The  mind  gives  over  toiling,  and  with  eyes 
Open  but  seeing  not,  and  senses  all 
Lying  awake  within  their  chambers  dim, 
Thought  settles  like  a  fountain,  still  and  clear — 
Far  in  its  sleeping  depths,  as  'twere  a  gem, 


(172) 

Tell  me,  O  memory,  what  shines  so  fair  ? 
The  face  of  the  sweet  child  I  knew  at  Rome  f 


THE  PITY  OF  THE  PARK  FOUNTAIN. 

'TwAS  a  summery  day  in  the  last  of  May- 
Pleasant  in  sun  or  shade  ; 

And  the  hours  went  by,  as  the  poets  say, 

Fragrant  and  fair  on  their  flowery  way  ; 

And  a  hearse  crept  slowly  through  Broadway — 
And  the  Fountain  gaily  play'd. 

The  Fountain  play'd  right  merrily, 
And  the  world  look'd  bright  and  gay  ; 

And  a  youth  went  by,  with  a  restless  eye, 

Whose  heart  was  sick  and  whose  brain  was  dry ; 

And  he  pray'd  to  God  that  he  might  die — 
And  the  Fountain  play'd  away. 

Uprose  the  spray  like  a  diamond  throne, 

And  the  drops  like  music  rang — 
And  of  those  who  marvell'd  how  it  shone, 
Was  a  proud  man,  left,  in  his  shame,  alone  ; 
And  he  shut  his  teeth  with  a  smother'd  groan — 

And  the  Fountain  sweetly  sang. 


(173) 

And  a  rainbow  spann'd  it  changefully, 

Like  a  bright  ring  broke  in  twain  ; 
And  the  pale,  fair  girl,  who  stopped  to  see, 
Was  sick  with  the  pangs  of  poverty — 
And  from  hunger  to  guilt  she  chose  to  flee 

As  the  rainbow  smiled  again. 

And  all  as  gay,  on  another  day, 

The  morning  will  have  shone  ; 
And  at  noon,  unmark'd,  through  bright  Broadway, 
A  hearse  will  take  its  silent  way  ; 
And  the  bard  who  sings  will  have  pass'd  away — 

And  the  Fountain  will  play  on  ! 


"CHAMBER  SCENE." 
{An  exquisite  picture  in  the  studio  of  a  young  artist  at  Rome.'] 

SHE  rose  from  her  untroubled  sleep, 

And  put  away  her  soft  brown  hair, 
And,  in  a  tone  as  low  and  deep 

As  love's  first  whisper,  breathed  a  prayer — 
Her  snow-white  hands  together  press'd, 

Her  blue  eyes  shelter'd  in  the  lid, 
The  folded  linen  on  her  breast 

Just  swelling  with  the  charms  it  hid  ; 
And  from  her  long  and  flowing  dress 


(174) 

Escaped  a  bare  and  slender  foot, 
Whose  shape  upon  the  earth  did  press 

Like  a  new  snow-flake,  white  and  "  mute  ;" 
And  there,  from  slumber  pure  and  warm, 

Like  a  young  spirit  fresh  from  heaven, 
She  bow'd  her  slight  and  graceful  form, 

And  humbly  pray'd  to  be  forgiven. 

Oh  God  !  if  souls  unsoil'd  as  these 

Need  daily  mercy  from  thy  throne — 
If  she  upon  her  bended  knees — 

Our  loveliest  and  our  purest  one— 
She,  with  a  face  so  clear  and  bright 
We  deem  her  some  stray  child  of  light — 
If  she,  with  those  soft  eyes  in  tears, 
Day  after  day  in  her  first  years, 
Must  kneel  and  pray  for  grace  from  thee — 
What  far,  far  deeper  need  have  we  ? 
How  hardly,  if  she  win  not  heaven, 
Will  our  wild  errors  be  forgiven  ! 


TO  A  STOLEN  RING. 


OH  for  thy  history  now  !     Hadst  thou  a  tongue 
To  whisper  of  thy  secrets,  I  could  lay 
Upon  thy  jewell'd  tracery  mine  ear, 


(175) 

And  dream  myself  in  heaven.     Thou  hast  been  worn 

In  that  fair  creature's  pride,  and  thou  hast  felt 

The  bounding  of  the  haughtiest  blood  that  e'er 

Sprang  from  the  heart  of  woman  ;  and  thy  gold 

Has  lain  upon  her  forehead  in  the  hour 

Of  sadness,  when  the  weary  thoughts  came  fast, 

And  life  was  but  a  bitterness  with  all 

Its  vividness  and  beauty.     She  has  gazed 

In  her  fair  girlhood  on  thy  snowy  pearls, 

And  mused  away  the  hours,  and  she  has  bent 

On  thee  the  downcast  radiance  of  her  eye 

When  a  deep  tone  was  eloquent  in  her  ear, 

And  thou  hast  lain  upon  her  cheek,  and  press'd 

Back  on  her  heart  its  beatings,  and  put  by 

From  her  vein'd  temples  the  luxuriant  curls; 

And  in  her  peaceful  sleep,  when  she  has  lain 

In  her  unconscious  beauty,  and  the  dreams 

Of  her  high  heart  came  goldenly  and  soft, 

Thou  hast  been  there  unchidden,  and  hast  felt 

The  swelling  of  the  clear  transparent  veins 

As  the  rich  blood  rush'd  through  them,  warm  and  fast. 

I  am  impatient  as  I  gaze  on  thee, 
Thou  inarticulate  jewel  !     Thou  hast  heard 
With  thy  dull  ear  such  music  ! — the  low  tone 
Of  a  young  sister's  tenderness,  when  night 
Hath  folded  them  together  like  one  flower — 
The  sudden  snatch  of  a  remember'd  song 
Warbled  capriciously — the  careless  word 
Lightly  betraying  the  inaudible  thought 


(176) 

Working  within  the  heart  ;  and  more,  than  all, 

Thou  hast  been  lifted  when  the  fervent  prayer 

For  a  loved  mother,  or  the  sleeping  one 

Lying  beside  her,  trembled  on  her  lip, 

And  the  warm  tear  that  from  her  eye  stole  out 

As  the  soft  lash  fell  over  it,  has  lain 

Amid  thy  shining  jewels  like  a  star. 


TO  HER  WHO  HAS  HOPES  OF  ME. 

OH  stern,  yet  lovely  monitress  ! 

Thine  eye  should  be  of  colder  hue, 
And  on  thy  neck  a  paler  tress 

Should  toy  among  those  veins  of  blue  ! 

For  thou  art  to  thy  mission  true — 
An  angel  clad  in  human  guise — 
But  sinners  sometimes  have  such  eyes, 

And  braid  for  love  such  tresses  too  ; 
And,  while  thou  talk'st  to  me  of  heaven, 
I  sigh  that  thou  hast  not  a  sin  to  be  forgiven  ! 

Night  comes,  with  love  upon  the  breeze, 
And  the  calm  clock  strikes,  stilly,  "  ten 
I  start  to  hear  it  beat,  for  then 

I  know  that  thou  art  on  thy  knees — 
And,  at  that  hour,  where'er  thou  be, 


(177) 

Ascends  to  heaven  a  prayer  for  me  ! 

My  heart  drops  to  its  bended  knee — 
The  mirth  upon  my  lip  is  dumb — 
Yet,  as  a  thought  of  heaven  would  come, 

There  glides,  before  it,  one  of  thee — 
Thou,  in  thy  white  dress,  kneeling  there  ! — 
I  fear  I  could  leave  heaven  to  see  thee  at  thy  prayer  ! 

I  follow  up  the  sacred  aisle, 

Thy  light  step  on  the  Sabbath-day, 
And — as  perhaps  thou  pray'st  the  while — 

My  light  thoughts  pass  away  ! 
As  swells  in  air  the  holy  hymn, 
My  breath  comes  thick,  my  eyes  are  dim, 

And  through  my  tears  I  pray  ! 
I  do  not  think  my  heart  is  stone — 
But,  while  for  heaven  it  beats  alone — 

In  heaven  would  willing  stay — 
One  rustle  of  thy  snow-white  gown 

Sends  all  my  thoughts  astray  ! 
The  preaching  dies  upon  my  ear — 
What  "  is  the  better  world"  when  thy  dark  eyes  are  here  ! 

Yet  pray  !  my  years  have  been  but  few — 
And  many  a  wile  the  tempter  weaves, 
And  many  a  saint  the  sinner  grieves 

Ere  Mercy  brings  him  through  ! 
But  oh,  when  Mercy  sits  serene 
And  strives  to  bend  to  me, 
Prav,  that  the  cloud  which  comes  between 


(178) 

May  less  resemble  thee  ! 
The  world  that  would  my  soul  beguile 
Tints  all  its  roses  with  thy  smile  ! 

In  heaven  'twere  well  to  be  ! 
But, — to  desire  that  blessed  shore — 
Oh  lady  !  thy  dark  eyes  must  first  have  gone  before  ! 


THE  DEATH  OF  HARRISON. 

WHAT  !  soar'd  the  old  eagle  to  die  at  the  sun  ! 
Lies  he  stiff  with  spread  wings  at  the  goal  he  had  won  ! 
Are  there  spirits  more  blest  than  the  "  Planet  of  Even," 
Who  mount  to  their  zenith,  then  melt  into  Heaven — 
No  waning  of  fire,  no  quenching  of  ray, 
But  rising,  still  rising,  when  passing  away  ? 
Farewell,  gallant  eagle  !  thou'rt  buried  in  light ! 
God-speed  into  Heaven,  lost  star  of  our  night ! 

Death  !  Death  in  the  White  House  !     Ah,  never  before, 
Trod  his  skeleton  foot  on  the  President's  floor  ! 
He  is  look'd  for  in  hovel,  and  dreaded  in  hall — 
The  king  in  his  closet  keeps  hatchment  and  pall — 
The  youth  in  his  birth-place,  the  old  man  at  home, 
Make  clean  from  the  door-stone  the  path  to  the  tomb  ; — 
But  the  lord  of  this  mansion  was  cradled  not  here — 
In  a  churchyard  far  off  stands  his  beckoning  bier  ! 


(179) 

He  is  here  as  the  wave-crest  heaves  flashing  on  high — 
As  the  arrow  is  stopp'd  by  its  prize  in  the  sky — 
The  arrow  to  earth,  and  the  foam  to  the  shore — 
Death  finds  them  when  swiftness  and  sparkle  are  o'er — 
But  Harrison's  death  fills  the  climax  of  story — 
He  went  with  his  old  stride — from  glory  to  glory  ! 

Lay  his  sword  on  his  breast  !     There's  no  spot  on  its  blade 

In  whose  cankering  breath  his  bright  laurels  will  fade  ! 

'Twas  the  first  to  lead  on  at  humanity's  call — 

It  was  stay'd  with  sweet  mercy  when  "  glory"  was  all  ! 

As  calm  in  the  council  as  gallant  in  war, 

He  fought  for  his  country,  and  not  its  "  hurrah  !" 

In  the  path  of  the  hero  with  pity  he  trod — 

Let  him  pass — with  his  sword — to  the  presence  of  God  ! 

What  more  ?     Shall  we  on,  with  his  ashes  ?     Yet,  stay  ! 

He  hath  ruled  the  wide  realm  of  a  king  in  his  day  ! 

At  his  word,  like  a  monarch's,  went  treasure  and  land — 

The  bright  gold  of  thousands  has  pass'd  thro'  his  hand — 

Is  there  nothing  to  show  of  his  glittering  hoard  ? 

No  jewel  to  deck  the  rude  hilt  of  his  sword — 

No  trappings — no  horses  ? — what  had  he,  but  now  ? 

On  ! — on*  with  his  ashes  ! — HE  LEFT  BUT  HIS  PLOUGH  ! 

Brave  old  Cincinnatus  !     Unwind  ye  his  sheet ! 

Let  him  sleep  as  he  lived — with  his  purse  at  his  feet  ! 

Follow  now,  as  ye  list  !     The  first  mourner  to-day 

Is  the  nation — whose  father  is  taken  away  ! 

Wife,  children,  and  neighbor,  may  moan  at  his  knell — 


(180) 

He  was  "  lover  and  friend"  to  his  country,  as  well  ! 
For  the  stars  on  our  banner,  grown  suddenly  dim, 
Let  us  weep,  in  our  darkness — but  weep  not  for  him  ! 
Not  for  him — who,  departing,  leaves  millions  in  tears  ! 
Not  for  him — who  has  died  full  of  honor  and  years  ! 
Not  for  him — who  ascended  Fame's  ladder  so  high 
From  the  round  at  the  top  he  has  stepp'd  to  the  sky  ! 


"SHE  WAS  NOT  THERE." 

"  The  bird, 
Let  loose,  to  his  far  nest  will  flee, 

And  love,  though  breathed  but  on  a  word, 
Will  find  thee,  over  land  and  sea." 

'Tis  midnight  deep — I  came  but  now 

From  the  close  air  of  lighted  halls  ; 
And  while  I  hold  my  aching  brow 

I  gaze  upon  my  dim-lit  walls  ; 
And,  feeling  here  that  I  am  free 

To  wear  the  look  that  suits  my  mood, 
And  let  my  thoughts  flow  back  to  thee, 

I  bless  my  tranquil  solitude, 
And  bidding  all  thoughts  else  begone, 
I  muse  upon  thy  love  alone. 
Yet  was  the  music  sweet  to-night, 


(181) 

And  fragrant  odors  filPd  the  air, 
And  flowers  were  drooping  in  the  light, 

And  lovely  women  wander'd  there ; 
And  fruits  and  wines  with  lavish  waste 

Were  on  the  marble  tables  piled, 
And  all  that  tempts  the  eye  and  taste, 

And  sets  the  haggard  pulses  wild, 
And  wins  from  care,  and  deadens  sadness, 
Were  there — but  yet  I  felt  no  gladness. 

I  thought  of  thee — I  thought  of  thee — 

Each  cunning  change  the  music  play'd, 
Each  fragrant  breath  that  stole  to  me, 

My  wandering  thought  more  truant  made. 
The  lovely  women  pass'd  me  by, 

The  wit  fell  powerless  on  mine  ear, 
I  look'd  on  all  with  vacant  eye, 

I  did  not  see — I  did  not  hear  ! 
The  skill'd  musician's  master-tone 

Was  sweet — thy  voice  were  sweeter  far  ! 
They  were  soft  eyes  the  lamps  shone  on — 

The  eyes  I  worship  gentler  are  ! 
The  halls  were  broad,  the  mirrors  tall, 

With  silver  lamps  and  costly  wine — 
I  only  thought  how  poor  was  all 

To  one  low  tone  from  lips  like  thine — 
I  only  felt  how  well  forgot 
Were  all  the  stars  look  on — and  thy  sweet  eyes  do  not! 


(182) 


FAIL  ME  NOT  THOU  ! 

"  Oh,  by  that  little  word 
How  many  thoughts  are  stirred! — 
The  last,  the  last,  the  last !" 

THE  star  may  but  a  meteor  be, 

That  breaks  upon  the  stormy  night  ; 
And  I  may  err,  believing  thee 

A  spark  of  heaven's  own  changeless  light  ! 
But  if  on  earth  beams  aught  so  fair, 

It  seems,  of  all  the  lights  that  shine, 
Serenest  in  its  truth,  'tis  there, 

Burning  in  those  soft  eyes  of  thine. 
Yet  long-watch'd  stars  from  heaven  have  rush'd, 

And  long-loved  friends  have  dropp'd  away, 
And  mine — my  very  heart  have  crush'd  ! 

And  I  have  hoped  this  many  a  day, 
It  lived  no  more  for  love  or  pain  ! 
But  thou  hast  stirr'd  its  depths  again, 

And,  to  its  dull,  out-wearied  ear, 
Thy  voice  of  melody  has  crept, 

In  tones  it  cannot  choose  but  hear  ; 
And  now  I  feel  it  only  slept, 

And  know,  at  even  thy  lightest  smile, 

It  gather'd  fire  and  strength  the  while. 

Fail  me  not  thou  !     This  feeling  past, 
My  heart  would  never  rouse  again. 


(183) 

Thou  art  the  brightest — but  the  last  ! 

And  if  this  trust,  this  love  is  vain — 
If  thou,  all  peerless  as  thou  art, 
Be  not  less  fair  than  true  of  heart — 

My  loves  are  o'er  !     The  sun  will  shine 
Upon  no  grave  so  hush'd  as  this  dark  breast  of  mine. 


SPIRIT-WHISPERS. 

(Spirit-whisper  in  the  poet's  ear — MORNING.) 
WAKE  !  poet,  wake  ! — the  morn  has  burst 

Through  gates  of  stars  and  dew, 
And,  wing'd  by  prayer  since  evening  nursed, 
Has  fled  to  kiss  the  steeples  first, 

And  now  stoops  low  to  you  ! 
Oh,  poet  of  the  loving  eye, 
For  you  is  dress'd  this  morning  sky  ! 

(Second  whisper — NOON.) 
Oh,  poet  of  the  pen  enchanted  ! 

A  lady  sits  beneath  a  tree  ! 
At  last,  the  flood  for  which  she  panted — 
The  wild  words  for  her  anguish  wanted, 

Have  gush'd  in  song  from  thee ! 
Her  dark  curls  sweep  her  knees  to  pray  : — 
"  God  bless  the  poet  far  away  !" 


(184) 

(.Third  whisper — MIDNIGHT.) 

King  of  the  heart's  deep  mysteries  ! 

Your  words  have  wings  like  lightning  wove  ! 
This  hour,  o'er  hills  and  distant  seas, 
They  fly  like  flower-seeds  on  the  breeze, 

And  sow  the  world  with  love  ! 
King  of  a  realm  without  a  throne, 
Ruled  by  resistless  tears  alone  ! 


TO  M ,  FROM  ABROAD. 

**  The  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star— 

Of  the  night  for  the  morrow — 
The  devotion  to  something  afar 

From  the  sphere  of  our  sorrow." 

SHEIXEY. 

**  L'alma,  quel  che  non  ha,  sogna  e  figura." 

METASTASIO. 

As,  gazing  on  the  Pleiades, 

We  count  each  fair  and  starry  one, 
Yet  wander  from  the  light  of  these 

To  muse  upon  the  Pleiad  gone — 
As,  bending  o'er  fresh-gather'd  flowers, 

The  rose's  most  enchanting  hue 
Reminds  us  but  of  other  hours 

Whose  roses  were  all  lovely  too — 


(185) 

So,  dearest,  when  I  rove  among 
The  bright  ones  of  this  foreign  sky, 

And  mark  the  smile,  and  list  the  song, 
And  watch  the  dancers  gliding  by, 

The  fairer  still  they  seem  to  be, 

The  more  it  stirs  a  thought  of  thee ! 

The  sad,  sweet  bells  of  twilight  chime, 

Of  many  hearts  may  touch  but  one, 
And  so  this  seeming  careless  rhyme 

Will  whisper  to  thy  heart  alone. 
I  give  it  to  the  winds  !     The  bird, 

Let  loose,  to  his  far  nest  will  flee, 
And  love,  though  breathed  but  on  a  word, 

Will  find  thee  over  land  and  sea. 
Though  clouds  across  the  sky  have  driven, 

We  trust  the  star  at  last  will  shine, 
And  like  the  very  light  of  heaven 

I  trust  thy  love.     Trust  thou  in  mine  f 


SUNRISE  THOUGHTS  AT  THE  CLOSE  OF  A  BALL. 

MORN  in  the  East  !  How  coldly  fair 
It  breaks  upon  my  fever'd  eye  f 

How  chides  the  calm  and  dewy  air  ! 
How  chides  the  pure  and  pearly  sky  ! 


(186) 

The  stars  melt  in  a  brighter  fire — • 

The  dew,  in  sunshine,  leaves  the  flowers— 
They,  from  their  watch,  in  light  retire, 
While  we,  in  sadness,  pass  from  ours. 

I  turn  from  the  rebuking  morn, — 

The  cold  gray  sky,  and  fading  star, — 
And  listen  to  the  harp  and  horn, 

And  see  the  waltzers  near  and  far — 
The  lamps  and  flowers  are  bright  as  yet, 

And  lips  beneath  more  bright  than  they, — 
How  can  a  scene  so  fair  beget 

The  mournful  thoughts  we  bear  away  ! 

'Tis  something  that  thou  art  not  here, 

Sweet  lover  of  my  lightest  word  ! 
'Tis  something  that  my  mother's  tear 

By  these  forgetful  hours  is  stirr'd  ! 
But  I  have  long  a  loiterer  been 

In  haunts  where  Joy  is  said  to  be, 
And  though  with  Peace  I  enter  in, 

The  nymph  comes  never  forth  urilh  me  ! 


TO  A  FACE  BELOVED 


THE  music  of  the  waken'd  lyre 

Dies  not  upon  the  quivering  strings, 


(187) 

Nor  burns  alone  the  minstrel's  fire 
Upon  the  lip  that  trembling  sings ; 

vNor  shines  the  moon  in  heaven  unseen, 
Nor  shuts  the  flower  its  fragrant  cells, 

Nor  sleeps  the  fountain's  wealth,  I  ween, 
Forever  in  its  sparry  wells — 

The  spells  of  the  enchanter  lie 
Not  on  his  own  lone  heart — his  own  rapt  ear  and  eye. 

I  look  upon  a  face  as  fair 

As  ever  made  a  lip  of  heaven 
Falter  amid  its  music-prayer  ! 

The  first-lit  star  of  summer  even 
Springs  not  so  softly  on  the  eye, 

Nor  grows,  with  watching,  half  so  bright, 
Nor  'mid  its  sisters  of  the  sky, 

So  seems  of  heaven  the  dearest  light — 
Men  murmur,  where  that  face  is  seen, 
My  youth's  angelic  dream  was  of  that  look  and  mien. 

Yet  though  we  deem  the  stars  are  blest, 

And  envy,  in  our  grief,  the  flower 
That  bears  but  sweetness  in  its  breast, 

And  fear  th'  enchanter  for  his  power, 
And  love  the  minstrel  for  the  spell 

He  winds  out  of  his  lyre  so  well — 
The  stars  are  almoners  of  light, 

The  lyrist  of  melodious  air, 
The  fountain  of  its  waters  bright, 

And  every  thing  most  sweet  and  fair 


(188) 

Of  that  by  which  it  charms  the  ear, 

The  eye,  of  him  that  passes  near— • 
A  lamp  is  lit  in  woman's  eye 
That  souls,  else  lost  on  earth,  remember  angels  by. 


UNSEEN  SPIRITS. 

THE  shadows  lay  along  Broadway, 
'Twas  near  the  twilight- tide — 

And  slowly  there  a  lady  fair 
Was  walking  in  her  pride. 

Alone  walk'd  she  ;  but,  viewlessly, 
Walk'd  spirits  at  her  side. 

Peace  charm'd  the  street  beneath  her  feet, 

And  Honor  charm'd  the  air  ; 
And  all  astir  look'd  kind  on  her, 

And  call'd  her  good  as  fair — 
For  all  God  ever  gave  to  her 

She  kept  with  chary  care. 

She  kept  with  care  her  beauties  rare 
From  lovers  warm  and  true — 

For  her  heart  was  cold  to  all  but  gold, 
And  the  rich  came  not  to  woo — 


(189) 

But  honor'd  well  are  charms  to  sell 
If  priests  the  selling  do. 

Now  walking  there  was  one  more  fair — 

A  slight  girl,  lily-pale  ; 
And  she  had  unseen  company 

To  make  the  spirit  quail — 
'Twixt  Want  and  Scorn  she  walk'd  forlorn, 

And  nothing  could  avail. 

No  mercy  now  can  clear  her  brow 
For  this  world's  peace  to  pray  ; 

For,  as  love's  wild  prayer  dissolved  in  air, 
Her  woman's  heart  gave  way  ! — 

But  the  sin  forgiven  by  Christ  in  heaven 
By  man  is  cursed  alway  ! 


BETTER  MOMENTS. 

MY  mother's  voice  !  how  often  creeps 
Its  cadence  on  my  lonely  hours  ! 

Like  healing  sent  on  wings  of  sleep, 
Or  dew  to  the  unconscious  flowers. 

I  can  forget  her  melting  prayer 
While  leaping  pulses  madly  fly, 


(190) 

But  in  the  still,  unbroken  air, 

Her  gentle  tone  comes  stealing  by — 
And  years,  and  sin,  and  manhood  flee, 
And  leave  me  at  my  mother's  knee. 

The  book  of  nature,  and  the  print 

Of  beauty  on  the  whispering  sea, 
Give  aye  to  me  some  lineament 

Of  what  I  have  been  taught  to  be. 
My  heart  is  harder,  and  perhaps 

My  manliness  hath  drunk  up  tears  ; 
And  there's  a  mildew  in  the  lapse 

Of  a  few  swift  and  chequer'd  years — 
But  nature's  book  is  even  yet 
With  all  my  mother's  lessons  writ. 

I  have  been  out  at  eventide 

Beneath  a  moonlight  sky  of  spring, 
When  earth  was  garnish'd  like  a  bride, 

And  night  had  on  her  silver  wing — 
When  bursting  leaves,  and  diamond  grass, 

And  waters  leaping  to  the  light, 
And  all  that  make  the  pulses  pass 

With  wilder  fleetness,  throng'd  the  night — 
When  all  was  beauty — then  have  I 

With  friends  on  whom  my  love  is  flung 
Like  myrrh  on  winds  of  Araby, 

Gazed  up  where  evening's  lamp  is  hung, 
And  when  the  beautiful  spirit  there 

Flung  over  me  its  golden  chain, 


(191) 

My  mother's  voice  came  on  the  air 
Like  the  light  dropping  of  the  rain — 

And  resting  on  some  silver  star 
The  spirit  of  a  bended  knee, 

I've  pour'd  out  low  and  fervent  prayer 
That  our  eternity  might  be 

To  rise  in  heaven,  like  stars  at  night, 

And  tread  a  living  path  of  light. 

I  have  been  on  the  dewy  hills, 

When  night  was  stealing  from  the  dawn, 
And  mist  was  on  the  waking  rills, 

And  tints  were  delicately  drawn 
In  the  gray  East — when  birds  were  waking, 

With  a  low  murmur  in  the  trees, 
And  melody  by  fits  was  breaking 

Upon  the  whisper  of  the  breeze — 
And  this  when  I  was  forth,  perchance 
As  a  worn  reveller  from  the  dance — 

And  when  the  sun  sprang  gloriously 
And  freely  up,  and  hill  and  river 

Were  catching  upon  wave  and  tree 
The  arrows  from  his  subtle  quiver — 

I  say  a  voice  has  thrill'd  me  then, 
Heard  on  the  still  and  rushing  light, 

Or,  creeping  from  the  silent  glen, 
Like  words  from  the  departing  night, 

Hath  stricken  me,  and  I  have  press'd 
On  the  wet  grass  my  fever'd  brow, 

And  pouring  forth  the  earliest 


(192) 

First  prayer,  with  which  I  learn'd  to  bow. 
Have  felt  my  mother's  spirit  rush 

Upon  me  as  in  by-past  years. 
And,  yielding  to  the  blessed  gush 

Of  my  ungovernable  tears, 

Have  risen  up — the  gay,  the  wild — 
Subdued  and  humble  as  a  child. 


THE  ANNOYER. 

"  Common  as  light  is  love, 
And  its  familiar  voice  wearies  not  ever."— SHELLEY. 

LOVE  knoweth  every  form  of  air, 

And  every  shape  of  earth, 
And  comes,  unbidden,  everywhere, 

Like  thought's  mysterious  birth. 
The  moonlit  sea  and  the  sunset  sky 

Are  written  with  Love's  words, 
And  you  hear  his  voice  unceasingly, 

Like  song  in  the  time  of  birds. 

He  peeps  into  the  warrior's  heart 
From  the  tip  of  a  stooping  plume, 

And  the  serried  spears  and  the  many  men 
May  not  deny  him  room. 

He'll  come  to  his  tent  in  the  weary  night, 


(193) 

And  be  busy  in  his  dream  ; 
And  he'll  float  to  his  eye  in  morning  light 
Like  a  fay  on  a  silver  beam. 

He  hears  the  sound  of  the  hunter's  gun, 

And  rides  on  the  echo  back, 
And  sighs  in  his  ear,  like  a  stirring  leaf, 

And  flits  in  his  woodland  track. 
The  shade  of  the  wood,  and  the  sheen  of  the  river, 

The  cloud  and  the  open  sky — 
He  will  haunt  them  all  with  his  subtle  quiver, 

Like  the  light  of  your  very  eye. 

The  fisher  hangs  over  the  leaning  boat, 

And  ponders  the  silver  sea, 
For  Love  is  under  the  surface  hid, 

And  a  spell  of  thought  has  he. 
He  heaves  the  wave  like  a  bosom  sweet, 

And  speaks  in  the  ripple  low, 
Till  the  bait  is  gone  from  the  crafty  line, 

And  the  hook  hangs  bare  below. 

He  blurs  the  print  of  the  scholar's  book, 

And  intrudes  in  the  maiden's  prayer, 
And  profanes  the  cell  of  the  holy  man, 

In  the  shape  of  a  lady  fair. 
In  the  darkest  night,  and  the  bright  daylight, 

In  earth,  and  sea,  and  sky, 
In  every  home  of  human  thought, 

Will  Love  be  lurking  nigh. 


(194) 


ANDRE'S  REQUEST  TO  WASHINGTON. 

IT  is  not  the  fear  of  death 

That  damps  my  brow, 
It  is  not  for  another  breath 

I  ask  thee  now  ; 
I  can  die  with  a  lip  unstirr'd 

And  a  quiet  heart — 
Let  but  this  prayer  be  heard 

Ere  I  depart. 

I  can  give  up  my  mother's  look— 

My  sister's  kiss  ; 
I  can  think  of  love — yet  brook 

A  death  like  this  ! 
I  can  give  up  the  young  fame 

I  burn'd  to  win — 
All — but  the  spotless  name 

I  glory  in. 

Thine  is  the  power  to  give, 

Thine  to  deny, 
Joy  for  the  hour  I  live — 

Calmness  to  die. 
By  all  the  brave  should  cherish, 

By  my  dying  breath, 
I  ask  that  I  may  perish 

By  a  soldier's  death  ! 


(195) 


DAWN. 
"  That,  line  I  learned  not  in  the  old  sad  song." — CHARLES  LAMB. 

THROW  up  the  window  !     'Tis  a  morn  for  life 
In  its  most  subtle  luxury.     The  air 
Is  like  a  breathing  from  a  rarer  world  ; 
And  the  south  wind  is  like  a  gentle  friend, 
Parting  the  hair  so  softly  on  my  brow. 
It  has  come  over  gardens,  and  the  flowers 
That  kiss'd  it  are  betray'd  ;  for  as  it  parts, 
With  its  invisible  fingers,  my  loose  hair, 
I  know  it  has  been  trifling  with  the  rose, 
And  stooping  to  the  violet.     There  is  joy 
For  all  God's  creatures  in  it.     The  wet  leaves 
Are  stirring  at  its  touch,  and  birds  are  singing 
As  if  to  breathe  were  music,  and  the  grass 
Sends  up  its  modest  odor  with  the  dew, 
Like  the  small  tribute  of  humility. 

I  had  awoke  from  an  unpleasant  dream, 
And  light  was  welcome  to  me.     I  look'd  out 
To  feel  the  common  air,  and  when  the  breath 
Of  the  delicious  morning  met  my  brow, 
Cooling  its  fever,  and  the  pleasant  sun 
Shone  on  familiar  objects,  it  was  like 
The  feeling  of  the  captive  who  comes  forth 
From  darkness  to  the  cheerful  light  of  day. 


(196) 

Oh  !  could  we  wake  from  sorrow  ;  were  it  all 

A  troubled  dream  like  this,  to  cast  aside 

Like  an  untimely  garment  with  the  morn  ; 

Could  the  long  fever  of  the  heart  be  cool'd 

By  a  sweet  breath  from  nature  ;  or  the  gloom 

Of  a  bereaved  affection  pass  away 

With  looking  on  the  lively  tint  of  flowers — 

How  lightly  were  the  spirit  reconciled 

To  make  this  beautiful,  bright  world  its  home  ! 


EXTRACT 

From  a  Poem  delivered  at  the  Departure  of  the  Senior  Clcas  of  Yale  College, 
in  1827. 


WE  shall  go  forth  together.     There  will  come 

Alike  the  day  of  trial  unto  all, 

And  the  rude  world  will  buffet  us  alike. 

Temptation  hath  a  music  for  all  ears  ; 

And  mad  ambition  trumpeteth  to  all  ; 

And  the  ungovernable  thought  within 

Will  be  in  every  bosom  eloquent  ; — 

But  when  the  silence  and  the  calm  come  on, 

And  the  high  seal  of  character  is  set, 

We  shall  not  all  be  similar.     The  flow 

Of  life-time  is  a  graduated  scale  ; 

And  deeper  than  the  vanities  of  power, 


(197) 

Or  the  vain  pomp  of  glory,  there  is  writ 

A  standard  measuring  its  worth  for  Heaven. 

The  pathway  to  the  grave  may  be  the  same, 

And  the  proud  man  shall  tread  it,  and  the  low, 

With  his  bow'd  head,  shall  bear  him  company. 

Decay  will  make  no  difference,  and  death, 

With  his  cold  hand,  shall  make  no  difference  j 

And  there  will  be  no  precedence  of  power, 

In  waking  at  the  coming  trump  of  God  ; 

But  in  the  temper  of  the  invisible  mind, 

The  godlike  and  undying  intellect, 

There  are  distinctions  that  will  live  in  heaven, 

When  time  is  a  forgotten  circumstance  ! 

The  elevated  brow  of  kings  will  lose 

The  impress  of  regalia,  and  the  slave 

Will  wear  his  immortality  as  free, 

Beside  the  crystal  waters  ;  but  the  depth 

Of  glory  in  the  attributes  of  God, 

Will  measure  the  capacities  of  mind  ; 

And  as  the  angels  differ,  will  the  ken 

Of  gifted  spirits  glorify  him  more. 

It  is  life's  mystery.     The  soul  of  man 

Createth  its  own  destiny  of  power  ; 

And,  as  the  trial  is  intenser  here, 

His  being  hath  a  nobler  strength  in  heaven. 

What  is  its  earthly  victory  ?     Press  on  ! 
For  it  hath  tempted  angels.     Yet  press  on  ! 
For  it  shall  make  you  mighty  among  men  ; 
And  from  the  eyrie  of  your  eagle  thought, 


(198) 

Ye  shall  look  down  on  monarchs.     O  press  on  ! 
For  the  high  ones  and  powerful  shall  come 
To  do  you  reverence  :  and  the  beautiful 
Will  know  the  purer  language  of  your  brow, 
And  read  it  like  a  talisman  of  love  ! 
Press  on  !  for  it  is  godlike  to  unloose 
The  spirit,  and  forget  yourself  in  thought ; 
Bending  a  pinion  for  the  deeper  sky, 
And,  in  the  very  fetters  of  your  flesh, 
Mating  with  the  pure  essences  of  heaven  ! 
Press  on  ! — "  for  in  the  grave  there  is  no  work, 
And  no  device." — Press  on  !  while  yet  ye  may  ! 

So  lives  the  soul  of  man.     It  is  the  thirst 
Of  his  immortal  nature  ;  and  he  rends 
The  rock  for  secret  fountains,  and  pursues 
The  path  of  the  illimitable  wind 
For  mysteries — and  this  is  human  pride  ! 
There  is  a  gentler  element,  and  man 
May  breathe  it  with  a  calm,  unruffled  soul, 
And  drink  its  living  waters  till  his  heart 
Is  pure — and  this  is  human  happiness  ! 
Its  secret  and  its  evidence  are  writ 
In  the  broad  book  of  nature.     'Tis  to  have 
Attentive  and  believing  faculties  ; 
To  go  abroad  rejoicing  in  the  joy 
Of  beautiful  and  well-created  things  ; 
To  love  the  voice  of  waters,  and  the  sheen 
Of  silver  fountains  leaping  to  the  sea  ; 
To  thrill  with  the  rich  melody  of  birds, 


(199) 

Living  their  life  of  music  ;  to  be  glad 

In  the  gay  sunshine,  reverent  in  the  storm  ; 

To  see  a  beauty  in  the  stirring  leaf, 

And  find  calm  thoughts  beneath  the  whispering  tree 

To  see,  and  hear,  and  breathe  the  evidence 

Of  God's  deep  wisdom  in  the  natural  world  ! 

It  is  to  linger  on  "  the  magic  face 

Of  human  beauty,"  and  from  light  arid  shade 

Alike  to  draw  a  lesson  ;  'tis  to  love 

The  cadences  of  voices  that  are  tuned 

By  majesty  and  purity  of  thought ; 

To  gaze  on  woman's  beauty,  as  a  star 

Whose  purity  and  distance  make  it  fair  ; 

And  in  the  gush  of  music  to  be  still, 

And  feel  that  it  has  purified  the  heart  ! 

It  is  to  love  all  virtue  for  itself, 

All  nature  for  its  breathing  evidence  ; 

And,  when  the  eye  hath  seen,  and  when  the  ear 

Hath  drunk  the  beautiful  harmony  of  the  world, 

It  is  to  humble  the  imperfect  mind, 

And  lean  the  broken  spirit  upon  God  ! 

Thus  would  I,  at  this  parting  hour,  be  true 
To  the  great  moral  of  a  passing  world. 
Thus  would  I — like  a  just-departing  child, 
Who  lingers  on  the  threshold  of  his  home — 
Remember  the  best  lesson  of  the  lips 
Whose  accents  shall  be  with  us  now,  no  more  ! 
And  I  would  press  the  lesson  ;  that,  when  life 
Hath  half  become  a  weariness,  and  hope 


(  200  ) 

Thirsts  for  serener  waters,  go  abroad 
Upon  the  paths  of  nature,  and,  when  all 
Its  voices  whisper,  and  its  silent  things 
Are  breathing  the  deep  beauty  of  the  world, 
Kneel  at  its  simple  altar,  and  the  God 
Who  hath  the  living  waters  shall  be  there  ! 


THE  ELMS  OF  NEW  HAVEN. 

[Extracts  from  a  Poem  delivered  before  the  Linonian  Society  of  Yale 
College,  New  Haven.] 

*         *         *         *         The  leaves  we  knew 
Are  gone,  these  many  summers,  and  the  winds 
Have  scatter'd  them  all  roughly  through  the  world 
But  still,  in  calm  and  venerable  strength, 
The  old  stems  lift  their  burthens  up  to  heaven, 
And  the  young  leaves,  to  the  same  pleasant  tune, 
Drink  in  the  light,  and  strengthen,  and  grow  fair. 
The  shadows  have  the  same  cool,  emerald  air  ; 
And  prodigal  as  ever  is  the  breeze, 
Distributing  the  verdure's  temperate  balm. 
The  trees  are  sweet  to  us.     The  outcry  strong 
Of  the  long-wandering  and  returning  heart, 
Is  for  the  thing  least  changed.     A  stone  unturn'd, 
Is  sweeter  than  a  strange  or  alter'd  face  ; 


(201) 

A  tree,  that  flings  its  shadow  as  of  yore, 

Will  make  the  blood  stir,  sometimes,  when  the  words 

Of  a  long-look'd-for  lip  fall  icy  cold. 

Ye,  who  in  this  Academy  of  shade, 

Dreamt  out  the  scholar's  dream,  and  then  away 

On  troubled  seas  went  voyaging  with  Care, 

But  hail  to-day  the  well-remember'd  haven — 

Ye,  who  at  memory's  trumpet-call,  have  stay'd 

The  struggling  foot  of  life,  the  warring  hand, 

And,  weary  of  the  strife,  come  back  to  see 

The  green  tent  where  your  harness  was  put  on — 

Say — when  you  trod  the  shadowy  street  this  morn, 

Leapt  not  your  heart  up  to  the  glorious  trees  ? 

Say — was  it  only  to  my  sleep  they  came — 

The  angels,  who  to  these  remember'd  trees 

Brought  me  back,  ever  ?     I  have  come,  in  dream, 

From  many  a  far  land,  many  a  brighter  sky, 

And  trod  these  dappled  shadows  till  the  morn. 

From  every  Gothic  isle  my  heart  fled  home, 

From  every  groined  roof,  and  pointed  arch, 

To  find  its  type  in  emerald  beauty  here. 

The  moon  we  worshipp'd  thro'  this  trembling  veil, 

In  other  heavens  seem'd  garish  and  unclad. 

The  stars  that  burn'd  to  us  thro'  whispering  leaves, 

Stood  cold  and  silently  in  other  skies. 

Stiller  seem'd  alway  here  the  holy  dawn 

Hush'd  by  the  breathless  silence  of  the  trees  ; 

And  who,  that  ever,  on  a  Sabbath  morn, 

Sent  thro'  this  leafy  roof  a  prayer  to  Heaven, 

And  when  the  sweet  bells  burst  upon  the  air, 


(202) 

Saw  the  leaves  quiver,  and  the  flecks  of  light 

Leap  like  caressing  angels  to  the  feet 

Of  the  church-going  multitude,  but  felt 

That  here,  God's  day  was  holier — that  the  trees, 

Pierced  by  these  shining  spires,  and  echoing  ever 

"  To  prayer  !"  "  To  prayer  !""  were  but  the  lofty  roof 

Of  an  unhewn  cathedral,  in  whose  choirs 

Breezes  and  storm-winds,  and  the  many  birds 

Join'd  in  the  varied  anthem  ;  and  that  so, 

Resting  their  breasts  upon  these  bending  limbs, 

Closer,  and  readier  to  our  need  they  lay — 

The  spirits  who  keep  watch  'twixt  us  and  Heaven. 


Alas  !  not  spirits  of  bright  wing  alone 
"  Dwell  by  the  oracle  of  God."     The  tree 
That  with  its  bright  spray  fans  the  sacred  spire, 
And  trembles  like  a  seraph's  lyre  to  prayer, 
Is  peopled  with  the  lying  ministers 
To  new-born  passions,  who,  with  couchant  ear, 
Follow  the  lone  steps  of  the  musing  boy, 
And  ere  the  wild  wish  struggles  to  the  light, 
Mask  its  dark  features,  and  with  silvery  voice 
Promise  it  wings  resistless.     Back,  to-day, 
Comes  many  a  foot,  all  wearily  and  slow, 
That  went  into  the  world  with  winged  heel  ; 
And  many  a  man,  still  young,  though  wisely  sad, 
Paces  the  sweet  old  shadows  with  a  sigh, 
The  spirits  are  so  mute  to  manhood's  ear 
That  tranced  the  boy  with  music.     On  a  night, 


(  203) 

The  fairest  of  a  summer,  years  ago, 

There  walk'd  a  youth  beneath  these  arching  trees. 

The  moon  was  in  mid-heaven,  an  orb  of  gold. 

The  air  was  rock'd  asleep,  or,  'mid  the  leaves 

Waked  without  whisper.     On  the  pavement  lay 

The  broken  moonbeams,  like  a  silver  net, 

Massive  and  motionless,  and,  if  a  bird 

Sang  a  half  carol  as  the  moon  wore  on 

And  look'd  into  his  nest,  or  if  the  note 

Of  a  monotonous  insect  caught  the  ear, 

The  silence  was  but  challenged  by  the  sound, 

And  night  seem'd  stiller  after.     With  his  heart 

Robb'd  of  its  sentinel,  the  youth  paced  on. 

His  truant  soul  lay  breathless  on  his  lips, 

Drowsed  with  the  spell  of  the  voluptuous  air  ; 

And  shut  was  memory's  monitory  book  ; 

And  mute,  alas  !  as  they  will  sometimes  be, 

Were  Heaven's  rebuking  angels.     Then  uprose 

In  the  unguarded  chamber  of  his  heart, 

A  murmur,  inarticulate  and  wild  ; 

And  ere  it  had  a  semblance,  or  a  name, 

A  soft  voice  from  the  trees  said,  "  Wak'st  thou  there  ? 

Wak'st  thou,  at  last,  O  nature  ?     Thou  hast  slept, 

Far  through  the  morn,  and  glowing  flowers  of  ear, 

Many  and  bright  ones,  hast  thou  lost  forever  ; 

But  life  is  full  of  roses — come  away  ! 

Shut  up  those  dreary  books,  and  come  away  ! 

Why  is  the  night  so  passionately  sweet, 

If  made  for  study  and  a  brow  of  care  ? 

Why  are   your  lips  pride,  and  your  eyes  soft  fire  ? — 


(  204  ) 

Why  beautiful  in  youth,— if  cold  to  joy  ? 
List  to  the  pleading  senses,  where  they  lie, 
Numb  and  forgotten  in  the  cell  of  thought  ; 
Yet  are  they  God's  gift — precious  as  the  rest. 
Use  what  thou  hast — turn  to  the  soft  path  ever, — 
And,  in  the  garden  of  this  pleasant  world, 
Pluck  what  seems  fairest  to  thee  !"     A  light  wind 
Stole  through  the  trees,  and  with  its  airy  hand 
Lifted  the  leafy  |eil  from  off  the  moon  ; 
And  steadfastly  Night's  solemn  eye  look'd  in 
Upon  the  flush'd  face  of  the  troubled  boy — 
And  the  mysterious  voice  was  heard  no  more. 

Again  'twas  night.     A  storm  was  in  the  air  ; 

And,  by  his  pale  and  solitary  lamp, 

A  youth  of  sterner  temper  than  the  last, 

Kept  the  lone  scholar's  vigil.     He  had  laid 

His  book  upon  its  face,  and  with  his  head 

Turn'd  to  the  rattling  casement,  sat  erect, 

And  listen'd  to  the  shrill,  tempestuous  wind. 

Gust  after  gust  swept  by,  and  as  the  scream 

Of  the  careering  tempest  fiercer  came, 

The  youth's  dark  brow  crouch'd  lowering  to  his  eye, 

And  his  thin  lips  press'd  bloodlessly  together  ; 

And  with  some  muttering  words,  as  if  replying 

To  voices  that  call'd  to  him  from  the  storm, 

He  rose,  and  hurriedly  strode  forth.     The  air 

Below  the  lashing  tree-tops  was  all  black. 

The  lofty  trunks  creak'd  staggering  in  the  wind, 

But  all  invisibly  ;  and  in  the  sky 


(  205) 

Was  only  so  much  light  as  must  be  there 

While  hope  is  in  the  world.     Small  need  had  then 

The  spirit  who  would  wile  that  heart  from  Heaven 

To  lend  it  mask  or  utterance.     With  step 

Reckless  and  fast  the  wanderer  sped  on, 

And  as  the  tempest  smote  upon  his  breast, 

And  howlingly  fled  past,  he  clench'd  his  hands, 

And  struck  his  strong  arms  thro'  the  air,  and  rush'd 

Headlong  with  flying  fury  thro'  the  dark. 

Breathless  and  hoarse,  at  last,  against  the  trunk 

Of  a  vast  tree  he  stood  ;  and  to  an  ear 

Bending  from  out  the  branches  as  they  swung, 

Unconsciously  he  mutter'd  : — "  I  am  weak, 

And  this  wild  storm  is  mighty  ;  but  I  feel 

A  joy  in  its  career,  as  if  my  soul 

Breathed  only  thus.     I  am  aroused — unchain'd, 

Something  gives  outcry  in  me  that  was  dumb, 

Something  that  pined  for  weapons  is  in  arms, 

And  set  on  with  a  trumpet.     Glorious  blast  ! 

What  is  my  poor  tranquillity  of  life — 

My  abject  study — to  thy  storming  joy  ? 

An  intellect  is  mine — a  passive  soul 

Antagonist  to  nothing — while  for  thee, 

A  senseless  element,  are  wings  and  power — 

Power  to  dash  the  stars  out  from  the  sky — 

Wings  to  keep  pace  with  midnight  round  the  world. 

The  lightning's  fiery  traverse  is  no  bar, 

The  thunder's  hush  no  check,  the  howling  trees 

Only  thy  music.     Demon,  if  thou  art  ! 

Prince  of  the  powers  of  air,  if  such  there  be  ! 


(  206  ) 

Darkness  and  conflict  are  my  element, 
As  they  are  thine  !"     The  storm  lulPd  suddenly, 
The  tortured  trees  stood  silent  in  the  gloom, 
And  all  was  still — save  that  amid  the  leaves 
Stirr'd  a  low  murmur,  which,  like  airy  lips, 
Whispering  close  into  the  scholar's  ear, 
Became  articulate  : — "  Be  calm  !  be  calm, ! 
Return  to  thy  neglected  books,  and  read  ! 
Thou  shalt  have  all  thou  wilt,  but,  in  thy  books, 
Lie  weapons  keener  than  the  lightning's  edge, 
And  in  thy  intellect  a  power  of  ill 
To  which  the  storm-wind  is  an  infant's  anger. 
The  blast  blots  out  the  stars  that  shine  again. 
The  storm-wind  and  the  darkness  leave  the  trees 
Brighter  for  morn  to  smile  on  ;  but  the  mind 
Forges  from  knowledge  an  archangel's  spear, 
And,  with  the  spirits  that  compel  the  world, 
Conflicts  for  empire.     Call  thy  hate  of  day, 
Thy  scorn  of  men,  ambition  ! — and,  if  moved 
By  something  in  thy  heart  to  wrong  and  slay — 
Justice  sits  careless  with  a  bloody  sword  ; 
Religion  has  remorseless  whips  ;  and  gold 
Brings  to  thy  spurning  foot  the  necks  of  men. 
Be  thou  the  sword — the  whip — get  thou  the  gold — 
And  borne  triumphant  upon  human  praise, 
The  lightning  were  too  slow  to  do  thy  will — 
The  stormy  night  not  black  enough."     Again 
Toward  the  window  glimmering  thro'  the  dark 
The  scholar  turn'd,  and  with  a  pallid  brow, 
But  lips  of  marble,  fed  his  wasting  lamp, 


(207) 

And  patiently  read  down  the  morning  star. 
And  he  was  changed  thenceforward.         * 


*****        Wave  once  more 

The  wand  athwart  the  mirror  of  the  past. 

A  summer's  eve  in  June.     The  sun  had  shot 

A  golden  arrow  down  yon  leafy  aisle, 

And  to  his  tent  gone  in.     The  dusty  air 

Paraded   in  his  glory.     The  bright  spires, 

Like  mourners  who  still  see  the  lost  in  Heaven, 

Shone  in  his  smile  as  if  he  had  not  set  ; 

And  presently,  amid  his  glowing  track, 

Like  one  who  came  reluctant  to  replace 

The  great  light  newly  fled,  the  evening  star 

Stood  forth  with  timid  and  diminish'd  ray — 

But  brighten'd  as  the  sun  was  longer  gone. 

Life  was  a  feast  at  this  delicious  hour, 

And  all  came  forth  to  it.     The  bent  old  man 

Paced  musingly  before  his  open  door. 

The  tired  child,  with  hands  cross'd  droopingly, 

Sat  at  the  threshold.     Slowly  pass'd  the  dame  ; 

Slowly  the  listless  scholar,  sauntering  back 

To  his  shut  books  unwillingly  ;  and  low — 

Soften' d  and  low — as  if  the  chord  of  love 

Were  struck  and  harmonized  throughout  the  world, 

The  hum  of  voices  rose  upon  the  air. 

Hush'd  were  the  trees  the  while  ;  and  voiceless  lay 

The  wakeful  spirits  in  the  leaves,  till,  lo  ! 


(  208  ) 

A  pale  youth,*  mingling  in  the  throng  !     With  light 

And  airy  step,  and  mien  of  such  a  grace 

As  breathes  thro'  marble  from  the  sculptor's  dream, 

He  pass'd,  and  after  him  the  stranger's  eye 

Turn'd  with  inquiring  wonder.     Dumb  no  more 

Were  the  invisible  dwellers  in  the  trees ; 

For,  as  he  went,  the  feathery  branches  seem'd 

To  "syllable  his  name  ;"  and  to  the  ears 

Of  them  who  met  him,  whispering  music  flew, 

Stealing  their  hearts  away  to  link  to  his. 

"  Love  him  !"  the  old  man  heard  as  if  the  leaves 

Of  his  own  roof-tree  murmur'd  it ;  "  Love  well 

The  poet  who  may  sow  your  grave  with  flowers, 

The  traveller  to  the  far  land  of  the  Past, 

Lost  to  your  feet  forever  !"     Sadly  lean'd 

The  mourner  at  her  window  as  he  came, 

And  the  far-drooping  elm-leaf  touch'd  her  brow, 

And  whisper'd,  "  He  has  counted  all  thy  tears  ! 

The  breaking  chord  was  audible  to  him ! 

The  agony  for  which  thou,  weeping,  saidst 

There  was  no  pity,  for  its  throbs  were  dumb — 

He  look'd  but  in  thine  eyes,  and  read  it  all  ! 

Love  him,  for  sorrowing  with  thee  !"     The  sad  child, 

Sitting  alone  with  his  unheeded  grief, 

Look'd  at  him  through  his  tears,  and  smiled  to  hear 

The  same  strange  voice  that  talk'd  to  him  in  dreams 

Speak  from  the  low  tree  softly  ;  and  it  said — 

"  The  stranger  who  looks  on  thee  loves  the  child  ! 

*  JAMES  HILLHOUSE,  who  had  died  at  New  Haven  a  few  months  before. 


(  209  ) 

He  has  seen  angels  like  thee  ;  and  thy  sorrow 

Touches  his  own,  as  he  goes  silent  by. 

Love  him,  fair  child !"     The  poor  man,  from  his  door, 

Look'd  forth  with  cheerful  face,  and  as  the  eye, 

The  soft  eye  of  the  poet,  turn'd  to  his, 

A  whisper  from  the  tree  said,  "  This  is  he 

Who  knows  thy  heart  is  human  as  his  own, 

Who,  with  inspired  numbers,  tells  the  world 

That  love  dwells  with  the  lowly.     He  has  made 

The  humble  roof  a  burthen  in  sweet  song — 

Interpreted  thy  heart  to  happier  men  I 

Love  him  !  oh,  love  him,  therefore  !"     The  stern  man, 

Who,  with  the  tender  spirit  of  a  child, 

Walks  in  some  thorny  path,  unloved  and  lone ; 

The  maiden  with  her  secret ;  the  sad  mother, 

Speaking  no  more  of  her  dishonor'd  boy, 

But  bound  to  him  with  all  her  heart-strings  yet, — 

These  heard  the  trees  say,  as  the  poet  pass'd, 

"  Yours  is  the  mournful  poetry  of  life, 

And  in  the  sad  lines  of  your  silent  lips, 

Reads  he  with  tenderest  pity  !     Knit  to  him 

The  hearts  he  opens  like  a  clasped  book, 

And,  in  the  honey'd  music  of  his  verse, 

Hear  your  dumb  griefs  made  eloquent  !"     With  eye 

Watchful  and  moist,  the  poet  kept  his  way, 

Unconscious  of  the  love  around  him  springing  ; 

And  when  from  its  bent  path  the  evening  star 

Stepp'd  silently,  and  left  the  lesser  fires 

Lonely  in  heaven,  the  poet  had  gone  in, 

Mute  with  the  many  sorrows  he  had  seen  ; 

18* 


(210) 

And,  with  the  constancy  of  starry  eyes, 
The  hearts  he  touch'd  drew  to  him.         * 


EXTRACTS 
From  a  Poem  delivered  at  Brown  University  in  1830. 

WHAT  is  ambition  ?     'Tis  a  glorious  cheat ! 
Angels  of  light  walk  not  so  dazzlingly 
The  sapphire  walls  of  Heaven.     The  unsearch'd  mine 
Hath  not  such  gems.     Earth's  constellated  thrones 
Have  not  such  pomp  of  purple  and  of  gold. 
It  hath  no  features.     In  its  face  is  set 
A  mirror,  and  the  gazer  sees  his  own. 
It  looks  a  god,  but  it  is  like  himself ! 
It  hath  a  mien  of  empery,  and  smiles 
Majestically  sweet — but  how  like  him  ! 
It  follows  not  with  fortune.     It  is  seen 
Rarely  or  never  in  the  rich  man's  hall. 
It  seeks  the  chamber  of  the  gifted  boy, 
And  lifts  his  humble  window,  and  comes  in. 
The  narrow  walls  expand,  and  spread  away 
Into  a  kingly  palace,  and  the  roof 
Lifts  to  the  sky,  and  unseen  fingers  work 
The  ceilings  with  rich  blazonry,  and  write 
His  name  in  burning  letters  over  all. 
And  ever,  as  he  shuts  his  wilder'd  eyes, 


(211) 

The  phantom  comes  and  lays  upon  his  lids 
A  spell  that  murders  sleep,  and  in  his  ear 
Whispers  a  deathless  word,  and  on  his  brain 
Breathes  a  fierce  thirst  no  water  will  allay. 
He  is  its  slave  henceforth !     His  days  are  spent 
In  chaining  down  his  heart,  and  watching  where 
To  rise  by  human  weaknesses.     His  nights 
Bring  him  no  rest  in  all  their  blessed  hours. 
His  kindred  are  forgotten  or  estranged. 
Unhealthful  fires  burn  constant  in  his  eye. 
His  lip  grows  restless,  and  its  smile  is  curl'd 
Half  into  scorn — till  the  bright,  fiery  boy, 
That  was  a  daily  blessing  but  to  see, 
His  spirit  was  so  bird- like  and  so  pure, 
Is  frozen,  in  the  very  flush  of  youth, 
Into  a  cold,  care-fretted,  heartless  man  ! 

And  what  is  its  reward  ?     At  best  a  name  ! 
Praise — when  the  ear  has  grown  too  dull  to  hear  ! 
Gold — when  the  senses  it  should  please  are  dead  ! 
Wreaths — when  the  hair  they  cover  has  grown  gray  ! 
Fame — when  the  heart  it  should  have  thrill'd  is  numb  ! 
All  things  but  love — when  love  is  all  we  want, 
And  close  behind  comes  Death,  and  ere  we  know 
That  ev'n  these  unavailing  gifts  are  ours, 
He  sends  us,  stripp'd  and  naked,  to  the  grave  ! 


Yet  oh  !  what  godlike  gifts  neglected  lie 
Wasting  and  marr'd  in  the  forgotten  soul  ! 


(212) 

The  finest  workmanship  of  God  is  there. 
'Tis  fleeter  than  the  wings  of  light  and  wind  ; 
'Tis  subtler  than  the  rarest  shape  of  air  ; 
Fire,  and  wind,  and  water  do  its  will  ; 
Earth  has  no  secret  from  its  delicate  eye — 
The  air  no  alchymy  it  solveth  not  ; 
The  star-writ  Heavens  are  read  and  understood, 
And  every  sparry  mineral  hath  a  name, 
And  truth  is  recognised,  and  beauty  felt, 
And  (rod's  own  image  stamp'd  upon  its  brow. 

How  is  it  so  forgotten  ?     Will  it  live 
When  the  great  firmament  is  roll'd  away  ? 
Hath  it  a  voice,  forever  audible, 
"  I  AM  ETERNAL  !"     Can  it  overcome 
This  mocking  passion-fiend,  and  even  here 
Live  like  a  seraph  upon  truth  and  light  ? 

How  can  we  ever  be  the  slaves  we  are, 
With  a  sweet  angel  sitting  in  our  breasts  ! 
How  can  we  creep  so  lowly,  when  our  wings 
Tremble  and  plead  for  freedom  !     Look  at  him 
Who  reads  aright  the  image  on  his  soul, 
And  gives  it  nurture  like  a  child  of  light. 
His  life  is  calm  and  blessed,  for  his  peace, 
Like  a  rich  pearl  beyond  the  diver's  ken, 
Lies  deep  in  his  own  bosom.     He  is  pure, 
For  the  soul's  errands  are  not  done  with  men. 
His  senses  are  subdued  and  serve  the  soul. 
He  feels  no  void,  for  every  faculty 


(213) 

Is  used,  and  the  fine  balance  of  desire 

Is  perfect,  and  strains  evenly,  and  on. 

Content  dwells  with  him,  for  his  mind  is  fed, 

And  temperance  has  driven  out  unrest. 

He  heaps  no  gold.     It  cannot  buy  him  more 

Of  any  thing  he  needs.     The  air  of  Heaven 

Visits  no  freshlier  the  rich  man's  brow  ; 

He  has  his  portion  of  each  silver  star 

Sent  to  his  eye  as  freely,  and  the  light 

Of  the  blest  sun  pours  on  his  book  as  clear 

As  on  the  golden  missal  of  a  king. 

The  spicy  flowers  are  free  to  him  ;  the  sward, 

And  tender  moss,  and  matted  forest  leaves 

Are  as  elastic  to  his  weary  feet ; 

The  pictures  in  the  fountains,  and  beneath 

The  spreading  trees,  fine  pencillings  of  light, 

Stay  while  he  gazes  on  them  ;  the  bright  birds 

Know  not  that  he  is  poor,  and  as  he  comes 

From  his  low  roof  at  morn,  up  goes  the  lark 

Mounting  and  singing  to  the  gate  of  Heaven, 

And  merrily  away  the  little  brook 

Trips  with  its  feet  of  silver,  and  a  voice 

Almost  articulate,  of  perfect  joy. 

Air  to  his  forehead,  water  to  his  lips, 

Heat  to  his  blood,  come  just  as  faithfully, 

And  his  own  faculties  as  freely  play. 

Love  fills  his  voice  with  music,  and  the  tear 

Springs  at  as  light  a  bidding  to  his  eye, 

And  his  free  limbs  obey  him,  and  his  sight 

Flies  on  its  wondrous  errands  everywhere. 


(214) 

What  does  he  need  ?     Next  to  the  works  of  God, 
His  friends  are  the  rapt  sages  of  old  time. 
And  they  impart  their  wisdom  to  his  soul 
In  lavish  fulness,  when  and  where  he  will. 
He  sits  in  his  mean  dwelling,  and  communes 
With  Socrates  and  Plato,  and  the  shades 
Of  all  great  men  and  holy,  and  the  words 
Written  in  fire  by  Milton,  and  the  king 
Of  Israel,  and  the  troop  of  glorious  bards, 
Ravish  and  steal  his  soul  up  to  the  sky — 
And  what  is  it  to  him,  if  these  come  in 
And  visit  him,  that  at  his  humble  door 
There  are  no  pillars  with  rich  capitals, 
And  walls  of  curious  workmanship  within  ? 


THE  TORN  HAT. 

*       *       *       *       *       "A  leaf 
Fresh  flung  upon  a  river,  that  will  dance 
Upon  the  wave  that  stealeth  out  its  life, 
Then  sink  of  its  own  heaviness." 

PHILIP  SLINGSBT. 

THERE'S  something  in  a  noble  boy, 
A  brave,  free-hearted,  careless  one, 

With  his  uncheck'd,  unbidden  joy, 
His  dread  of  books  and  love  of  fun, 


(215) 

And  in  his  clear  and  ready  smile, 
Unshaded  by  a  thought  of  guile, 

And  unrepress'd  by  sadness — 
Which  brings  me  to  my  childhood  back, 
As  if  I  trod  its  very  track, 

And  felt  its  very  gladness. 
And  yet  it  is  not  in  his  play, 

When  every  trace  of  thought  is  lost, 
And  not  when  you  would  call  him  gay, 

That  his  bright  presence  thrills  me  most. 

His  shout  may  ring  upon  the  hill, 
His  voice  be  echoed  in  the  hall, 

His  merry  laugh  like  music  trill, 
And  I  unheeding  hear  it  all — 

For,  like  the  wrinkles  on  my  brow, 

I  scarcely  notice  such  things  now — 
But  when,  amid  the  earnest  game, 

He  stops,  as  if  he  music  heard, 
And,  heedless  of  his  shouted  name 

As  of  the  carol  of  a  bird, 
Stands  gazing  on  the  empty  air 
As  if  some  dream  were  passing  there — 

'Tis  then  that  on  his  face  I  look, 
His  beautiful  but  thoughtful  face, 

And,  like  a  long-forgotten  book, 
Its  sweet,  familiar  meanings  trace — 

Remembering  a  thousand  things 

Which  pass'd  me  on  those  golden  wings, 
Which  time  has  fetter'd  now — 

Things  that  came  o'er  me  with  a  thrill, 


(  216  ) 

And  left  me  silent,  sad,  and  still, 
And  threw  upon  my  brow 
A  holier  and  a  gentler  cast, 
That  was  too  innocent  to  last. 

JTis  strange  how  thought  upon  a  child 

Will,  like  a  presence,  sometimes  p: 
And  when  his  pulse  is  beating  wild, 

And  life  itself  is  in  excess — 
When  foot  and  hand,  and  ear  and  eye, 
Are  all  with  ardor  straining  high — 

How  in  his  heart  will  spring 
A  feeling,  whose  mysterious  thrall 
Is  stronger,  sweeter  far  than  all  ; 

And,  on  its  silent  wing, 
How  with  the  clouds  he'll  float  away, 
As  wandering  and  as  lost  as  they  ! 


TO  LAURA  W ,  TWO  YEARS  OF  AGE. 

BRIGHT  be  the  skies  that  cover  thee, 

Child  of  the  sunny  brow — 
Bright  as  the  dream  flung  over  thee — 

By  all  that  meets  thee  now — 
Thy  heart  is  beating  joyously, 

Thy  voice  is  like  a  bird's — 


(217) 

And  sweetly  breaks  the  melody 

Of  thy  imperfect  words. 
I  know  no  fount  that  gushes  out 
As  gladly  as  thy  tiny  shout. 

I  would  that  thou  might'st  ever  be 

As  beautiful  as  now, — 
That  time  might  ever  leave  as  free 

Thy  yet  unwritten  brow  : 
I  would  life  were  "  all  poetry" 

To  gentle  measure  set, 
That  nought  but  chasten'd  melody 

Might  stain  thine  eye  of  jet — 
Nor  one  discordant  note  be  spoken, 
Till  God  the  cunning  harp  hath  broken. 

I  would — but  deeper  things  than  these 

With  woman's  lot  are  wove  : 
Wrought  of  intensest  sympathies, 

And  nerved  by  purest  love — 
By  the  strong  spirit's  discipline, 

By  the  fierce  wrong  forgiven, 
By  all  that  wrings  the  heart  of  sin, 

Is  woman  won  to  heaven. 
"Her  lot  is  on  thee,"  lovely  child — 
God  keep  thy  spirit  undefiled  ! 

I  fear  thy  gentle  loveliness, 

Thy  witching  tone  and  air, 
Thine  eye's  beseeching  earnestness 


(218) 

May  be  to  thee  a  snare. 
The  silver  stars  may  purely  shine, 

The  waters  taintless  flow — 
But  they  who  kneel  at  woman's  shrine, 

Breathe  on  it  as  they  bow — 
Peace  may  fling  back  the  gift  again, 
But  the  crush'd  flower  will  leave  a  stain. 

What  shall  preserve  thee,  beautiful  child  ? 

Keep  thee  as  thou  art  now  ? 
Bring  thee,  a  spirit  undefiled, 

At  God's  pure  throne  to  bow  ? 
The  world  is  but  a  broken  reed, 

And  life  grows  early  dim — 
Who  shall  be  near  thee  in  thy  need, 

To  lead  thee  up  to  Him  ? 
He,  who  himself  was  "  undefiled  ?" 
With  Him  we  trust  thee,  beautiful  child  ! 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  YOUNG  GIRL. 

'Tis  difficult  to  feel  that  she  is  dead. 
Her  presence,  like  the  shadow  of  a  wing 
That  is  just  lessening  in  the  upper  sky, 
Lingers  upon  us.     We  can  hear  her  voice, 
And  for  her  step  we  listen,  and  the  eye 


(219) 

Looks  for  her  wonted  coming  with  a  strange, 

Forgetful  earnestness.     We  cannot  feel 

That  she  will  no  more  come — that  from  her  cheek 

The  delicate  flush  has  faded,  and  the  light 

Dead  in  her  soft  dark  eye,  and  on  her  lip, 

That  was  so  exquisitely  pure,  the  dew 

Of  the  damp  grave  has  fallen  !     Who  so  loved, 

Is  left  among  the  living  ?     Who  hath  walk'd 

The  world  with  such  a  winning  loveliness, 

And  on  its  bright  brief  journey  gather'd  up 

Such  treasures  of  affection  ?     She  was  loved 

Only  as  idols  are.     She  was  the  pride 

Of  her  familiar  sphere — the  daily  joy 

Of  all  who  on  her  gracefulness  might  gaze, 

And  in  the  light  and  music  of  her  way, 

Have  a  companion's  portion.     Who  could  feel, 

While  looking  upon  beauty  such  as  hers, 

That  it  would  ever  perish  ?     It  is  like 

The  melting  of  a  star  into  the  sky 

While  you  are  gazing  on  it,  or  a  dream 

In  its  most  ravishing  sweetness  rudely  broken. 


MAY. 


OH,  the  merry  May  has  pleasant  hours, 
And  dreamily  they  glide, 


© 


(220) 

As  if  they  floated  like  the  leaves 

Upon  a  silver  tide. 
The  trees  are  full  of  crimson  buds, 

And  the  woods  are  full  of  birds, 
And  the  waters  flow  to  music, 

Like  a  tune  with  pleasant  words. 

The  verdure  of  the  meadow-land 

Is  creeping  to  the  hills, 
The  sweet,  blue-bosom'd  violets 

Are  blowing  by  the  rills  ; 
The  lilach  has  a  load  of  balm 

For  every  wind  that  stirs, 
And  the  larch  stands  green  and  beautiful 

Amid  the  sombre  firs. 

There's  perfume  upon  every  wind — 

Music  in  every  tree — 
Dews  for  the  moisture-loving  flowers — 

Sweets  for  the  sucking  bee  ; 
The  sick  come  forth  for  the  healing  South, 

The  young  are  gathering  flowers  ; 
And  life  is  a  tale  of  poetry, 

That  is  told  by  golden  hours. 

If  'tis  not  a  true  philosophy, 

That  the  spirit  when  set  free 
Still  lingers  about  its  olden  home, 

In  the  flower  and  the  tree, 
It  is  very  strange  that  our  pulses  thrill 


(221) 

At  the  sight  of  a  voiceless  thing, 
And  our  hearts  yearn  so  with  tenderness 
In  the  beautiful  time  of  Spring. 


THE  SOLITARY. 

ALONE  !  alone  !     How  drear  it  is 

Always  to  be  alone  ! 
In  such  a  depth  of  wilderness, 

The  only  thinking  one  ! 
The  waters  in  their  path  rejoice, 

The  trees  together  sleep — 
But  I  have  not  one  silver  voice 

Upon  my  ear  to  creep  ! 

The  sun  upon  the  silent  hills 

His  mesh  of  beauty  weaves, 
There's  music  in  the  laughing  rills 

And  in  the  whispering  leaves. 
The  red  deer  like  the  breezes  fly 

To  meet  the  bounding  roe, 
But  I  have  not  a  human  sigh 

To  cheer  me  as  I  go. 

I've  hated  men — I  hate  them  now — 
But,  since  they  are  not  here, 


(  222  ) 

I  thirst  for  the  familiar  brow — 
Thirst  for  the  stealing  tear. 

And  I  should  love  to  see  the  one, 
And  feel  the  other  creep, 

And  then  again  I'd  be  alone 
Amid  the  forest  deep. 

I  thought  that  I  should  love  my  hound- 
Hear  my  resounding  gun, 

Till  I  forgot  the  thrilling  sound 
Of  voices — one  by  one. 

I  thought  that  in  the  leafy  hush 
Of  nature  they  would  die  ; 

But,  as  the  hinder'd  waters  rush, 
Resisted  feelings  fly. 

Pm  weary  of  my  lonely  hut 

And  of  its  blasted  tree, 
The  very  lake  is  like  my  lot, 

So  silent  constantly. 
I've  lived  amid  the  forest  gloom 

Until  I  almost  fear — 
When  will  the  thrilling  voices  come 

My  spirit  thirsts  to  hear  ? 


(223) 


SONNET. 

STORM  had  been  on  the  hills.     The  day  had  worn 

As  if  a  sleep  upon  the  hours  had  crept ; 
And  the  dark  clouds  that  gather'd  at  the  morn 

In  dull,  impenetrable  masses  slept, 
And  the  wet  leaves  hung  droopingly,  and  all 
Was  like  the  mournful  aspect  of  a  pall. 

Suddenly,  on  the  horizon's  edge,  a  blue 
And  delicate  line,  as  of  a  pencil,  lay, 

And,  as  it  wider  and  intenser  grew, 
The  darkness  removed  silently  away, 

And,  with  the  splendor  of  a  God,  broke  through 
The  perfect  glory  of  departing  day  : 

So,  when  his  stormy  pilgrimage  is  o'er, 

Will  light  upon  the  dying  Christian  pour. 


ACROSTIC-SONNET. 


ELEGANCE  floats  about  thee  like  a  dress, 
Melting  the  airy  motion  of  thy  form 

Into  one  swaying  grace  ;  and  loveliness, 

Like  a  rich  tint  that  makes  a  picture  warm, 


(224) 

Is  lurking  in  the  chestnut  of  thy  tress, 

Enriching  it,  as  moonlight  after  storm 
Mingles  dark  shadows  into  gentleness. 

A  beauty  that  bewilders  like  a  spell 
Reigns  in  thine  eye's  clear  hazel,  and  thy  brow, 

So  pure  in  vein'd  transparency,  doth  tell 
How  spiritually  beautiful  art  thou — 

A  temple  where  angelic  love  might  dwell. 
Life  in  thy  presence  were  a  thing  to  keep, 
Like  a  gay  dreamer  clinging  to  his  sleep. 


THE  SOLDIER'S  WIDOW. 
[  Written  for  a  Picture.] 

Wo  for  my  vine-clad  home  ! 
That  it  should  ever  be  so  dark  to  me, 
With  its  bright  threshold,  and  its  whispering  tree  ! 

That  I  should  ever  come, 
Fearing  the  lonely  echo  of  a  tread 
Beneath  the  roof-tree  of  my  glorious  dead  ! 

Lead  on,  my  orphan  boy  ! 
Thy  home  is  not  so  desolate  to  thee — 
And  the  low  shiver  in  the  linden  tree 

May  bring  to  thee  a  joy  ; 

But  oh,  how  dark  is  the  bright  home  before  thee, 
To  her  who  with  a  joyous  spirit  bore  thee  ! 


(225) 

Lead  on  !  for  thou  art  now 
My  sole  remaining  helper.     God  hath  spoken, 
And  the  strong  heart  I  lean'd  upon  is  broken  ; 

And  I  have  seen  his  brow — 
The  forehead  of  my  upright  one,  and  just — 
Trod  by  the  hoof  of  battle  in  the  dust. 

He  will  not  meet  thee  there 
Who  blest  thee  at  the  eventide,  my  son  ! 
And  when  the  shadows  of  the  night  steal  on, 

He  will  not  call  to  prayer. 
The  lips  that  melted,  giving  thee  to  God, 
Are  in  the  icy  keeping  of  the  sod  ! 

Ay,  my  own  boy  !  thy  sire 
Is  with  the  sleepers  of  the  valley  cast, 
And  the  proud  glory  of  my  life  hath  pass'd 

With  his  high  glance  of  fire. 
Wo  that  the  linden  and  the  vine  should  bloom, 
And  a  just  man  be  gather'd  to  the  tomb  ! 

Why — bear  them  proudly,  boy  ! 
It  is  the  sword  he  girded  to  his  thigh — 
It  is  the  helm  he  wore  -in  victory — 

And  shall  we  have  no  joy  ? 
For  thy  green  vales,  oh  Switzerland,  he  died  !- 
I  will  forget  my  sorrow  in  my  pride  ! 


(  226  ) 


STARLIGHT. 

THE  evening  star  will  twinkle  presently. 

The  last  small  bird  is  silent,  and  the  bee 

Has  gone  into  his  hive,  and  the  shut  flowers 

Are  bending  as  if  sleeping  on  the  stem, 

And  all  sweet  living  things  are  slumbering 

In  the  deep  hush  of  nature's  resting  time. 

The  faded  West  looks  deep,  as  if  its  blue 

Were  searchable,  and  even  as  I  look, 

The  twilight  hath  stole  over  it,  and  made 

Its  liquid  eye  apparent,  and  above 

To  the  far-stretching  zenith,  and  around, 

As  if  they  waited  on  her  like  a  queen, 

Have  stole  out  the  innumerable  stars 

To  twinkle  like  intelligence  in  heaven. 

Is  it  not  beautiful,  my  fair  Adel  ? 

Fit  for  the  young  affections  to  come  out 

And  bathe  in  like  an  element  !     How  well 

The  night  is  made  for  tenderness — so  still 

That  the  low  whisper,  scarcely  audible, 

Is  heard  like  music,  and  so  deeply  pure 

That  the  fond  thought  is  chasten'd  as  its  springs 

And  on  the  lip  made  holy.     I  have  won 

Thy  heart,  my  gentle  girl  !  but  it  hath  been 

When  that  soft  eye  was  on  me,  and  the  love 

I  told  beneath  the  evening  influence 

Shall  be  as  constant  as  its  gentle  star. 


(227) 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  EDWARD  PAYSON,  D.  D. 

A  SERVANT  of  the  living  God  is  dead  ! 

His  errand  hath  been  well  and  early  done, 

And  early  hath  he  gone  to  his  reward. 

He  shall  come  no  more  forth,  but  to  his  sleep 

Hath  silently  lain  down,  and  so  shall  rest. 

Would  ye  bewail  our  brother  ?     He  hath  gone 
To  Abraham's  bosom.     He  shall  no  more  thirst, 
Nor  hunger,  but  forever  in  the  eye, 
Holy  and  meek,  of  Jesus,  he  may  look, 
Unchided,  and  untempted,  and  unstain'd. 
Would  ye  bewail  our  brother  ?     He  hath  gone 
To  sit  down  with  the  prophets  by  the  clear 
And  crystal  waters  ;  he  hath  gone  to  list 
Isaiah's  harp  and  David's,  and  to  walk 
With  Enoch,  and  Elijah,  and  the  host 
Of  the  just  men  made  perfect.     He  shall  bow 
At  Gabriel's  hallelujah,  and  unfold 
The  scroll  of  the  Apocalypse  with  John, 
And  talk  of  Christ  with  Mary,  and  go  back 
To  the  last  supper,  and  the  garden  prayer 
With  the  beloved  disciple.     He  shall  hear 
The  story  of  the  Incarnation  told 
By  Simeon,  and  the  Triune  mystery 
Burning  upon  the  fervent  lips  of  Paul. 


(  228) 

He  shall  have  wings  of  glory,  and  shall  soar 

To  the  remoter  firmaments,  and  read 

The  order  and  the  harmony  of  stars  ; 

And,  in  the  might  of  knowledge,  he  shall  bow, 

In  the  deep  pauses  of  archangel  harps, 

And,  humble  as  the  Seraphim,  shall  cry — 

Who,  by  his  searching,  finds  thee  out,  oh  God  f 

There  shall  he  meet  his  children  who  have  gone 
Before  him,  and  as  other  years  roll  on, 
And  his  loved  flock  go  up  to  him,  his  hand 
Again  shall  lead  them  gently  to  the  Lamb, 
And  bring  them  to  the  living  waters  there. 

Is  it  so  good  to  die  !  and  shall  we  mourn 
That  he  is  taken  early  to  his  rest  ? 
Tell  me  !  oh  mourner  for  the  man  of  God  ! 
Shall  we  bewail  our  brother — that  he  died  ? 


JANUARY  1,  1828. 

FLEETLY  hath  pass'd  the  year.     The  seasons  came 
Duly  as  they  are  wont — the  gentle  Spring, 
And  the  delicious  Summer,  and  the  cool, 
Rich  Autumn,  with  the  nodding  of  the  grain, 


(  229  ) 

And  Winter,  like  an  old  and  hoary  man? 

Frosty  and  stiff — and  so  are  chronicled. 

We  have  read  gladness  in  the  new  green  leaf, 

And  in  the  first-blown  violets  ;  we  have  drunk 

Cool  water  from  the  rock,  and  in  the  shade 

Sunk  to  the  noon-tide  slumber  ; — we  have  pluck'd 

The  mellow  fruitage  of  the  bending  tree, 

And  girded  to  our  pleasant  wanderings 

When  the  cool  wind  came  freshly  from  the  hills  ; 

And  when  the  tinting  of  the  Autumn  leaves 

Had  faded  from  its  glory,  we  have  sat 

By  the  good  fires  of  Winter,  and  rejoiced 

Over  the  fulness  of  the  gather'd  sheaf. 

"  God  hath  been  very  good  !"     'Tis  He  whose  hand 

Moulded  the  sunny  hills,  and  hollow'd  out 

The  shelter  of  the  valleys,  and  doth  keep 

The  fountains  in  their  secret  places  cool ; 

And  it  is  He  who  leadeth  up  the  sun, 

And  ordereth  the  starry  influences, 

And  tempereth  the  keenness  of  the  frost — 

And  therefore,  in  the  plenty  of  the  feast, 

And  in  the  lifting  of  the  cup,  let  HIM 

Have  praises  for  the  well-completed  year. 


(  230  ) 


JANUARY  1,  1829. 

WINTER  is  come  again.     The  sweet  south-west 
Is  a  forgotten  wind,  and  the  strong  earth 
Has  laid  aside  its  mantle  to  be  bound 
By  the  frost  fetter.     There  is  not  a  sound, 
Save  of  the  skater's  heel,  and  there  is  laid 
An  icy  finger  on  the  lip  of  streams, 
And  the  clear  icicle  hangs  cold  and  still, 
And  the  snow-fall  is  noiseless  as  a  thought. 
Spring  has  a  rushing  sound,  and  Summer  sends 
Many  sweet  voices  with  its  odors  out, 
And  Autumn  rustleth  its  decaying  robe 
With  a  complaining  whisper.     Winter's  dumb  ! 
God  made  his  ministry  a  silent  one, 
And  he  has  given  him  a  foot  of  steel 
And  an  unlovely  aspect,  and  a  breath 
Sharp  to  the  senses — and  we  know  that  He 
Tempereth  well,  and  hath  a  meaning  hid 
Under  the  shadow  of  His  hand.     Look  up  ; 
And  it  shall  be  interpreted — Your  home 
Hath  a  temptation  now  !     There  is  no  voice 
Of  waters  with  beguiling  for  your  ear, 
And  the  cool  forest  and  the  meadows  green 
Witch  not  your  feet  away  ;  and  in  the  dells 
There  are  no  violets,  and  upon  the  hills 


(231) 

There  are  no  sunny  places  to  lie  down. 
You  must  go  in,  and  by  your  cheerful  fire 
Wait  for  the  offices  of  love,  and  hear 
Accents  of  human  tenderness,  and  feast 
Your  eye  upon  the  beauty  of  the  young. 
It  is  a  season  for  the  quiet  thought, 
And  the  still  reckoning  with  thyself.     The  year 
Gives  back  the  spirits  of  its  dead,  and  time 
Whispers  the  history  of  its  vanished  hours  ; 
And  the  heart,  calling  its  affections  up, 
Counteth  its  wasted  ingots.     Life  stands  still 
And  settles  like  a  fountain,  and  the  eye 
Sees  clearly  through  its  depths,  and  noteth  all 
That  stirr'd  its  troubled  waters.     It  is  well 
That  Winter  with  the  dying  year  should  come  ! 


PSYCHE, 
Etfore  the  Tribunal  of  Venus. 

LIFT  up  thine  eyes,  sweet  Psyche  !     What  is  she, 

That  those  soft  fringes  timidly  should  fall 

Before  her,  and  thy  spiritual  brow 

Be  dark,  as  if  her  presence  were  a  cloud  ? 

A  loftier  gift  is  thine  than  she  can  give — 

That  queen  of  beauty.     She  may  mould  the  brow 


(  232  ) 

To  perfectness,  and  give  unto  the  form 
A  beautiful  proportion  ;  she  may  stain 
The  eye  with  a  celestial  blue — the  cheek 
With  carmine  of  the  sunset ;  she  may  breathe 
Grace  into  every  motion,  like  the  play 
Of  the  least  visible  tissue  of  a  cloud  ; 
She  may  give  all  that  is  within  her  own 
Bright  cestus — and  one  silent  look  of  thine, 
Like  stronger  magic,  will  outcharm  it  all. 

Ay,  for  the  soul  is  better  than  its  frame, 
The  spirit  than  its  temple.     What's  the  brow, 
Or  the  eye's  lustre,  or  the  step  of  air, 
Or  color,  but  the  beautiful  links  that  chain 
The  mind  from  its  rare  element  ?     There  lies 
A  talisman  in  intellect  which  yields 
Celestial  music,  when  the  master  hand 
Touches  it  cunningly.     It  sleeps  beneath 
The  outward  semblance,  and  to  common  sight 
Is  an  invisible  and  hidden  thing  ; 
But  when  the  lip  is  faded,  and  the  cheek 
Robb'd  of  its  daintiness,  and  when  the  form 
Witches  the  sense  no  more,  and  human  love 
Falters  in  its  idolatry,  this  spell 
Will  hold  its  strength  unbroken,  and  go  on 
Stealing  anew  the  affections. 

Marvel  not 

That  Love  leans  sadly  on  his  bended  bow. 
He  hath  found  out  the  loveliness  of  mind, 


(  233  ) 

And  he  is  spoilt  for  beauty.     So  'twill  be 
Ever — the  glory  of  the  human  form 
Is  but  a  perishing  thing,  and  Love  will  droop 
When  its  brief  grace  hath  faded  ;  but  the  mind 
Perisheth  not,  and  when  the  outward  charm 
Hath  had  its  brief  existence,  it  awakes, 
And  is  the  lovelier  that  it  slept  so  long — 
Like  wells  that  by  the  wasting  of  their  flow 
Have  had  their  deeper  fountains  broken  up. 


ON  SEEING  A  BEAUTIFUL  BOY  AT  PLAY. 

DOWN  the  green  slope  he  bounded.     Raven  curls 

From  his  white  shoulders  by  the  winds  were  swept, 

And  the  clear  color  of  his  sunny  cheek 

Was  bright  with  motion.     Through  his  open  lips 

Shone  visibly  a  delicate  line  of  pearl, 

Like  a  white  vein  within  a  rosy  shell, 

And  his  dark  eye's  clear  brilliance,  as  it  lay 

Beneath  his  lashes,  like  a  drop  of  dew 

Hid  in  the  moss,  stole  out  as  covertly 

As  starlight  from  the  edging  of  a  cloud. 

I  never  saw  a  boy  so  beautiful. 

His  step  was  like  the  stooping  of  a  bird, 

And  his  limbs  melted  into  grace  like  things 


(  234  )         • 

Shaped  by  the  wind  of  summer.     He  was  like 

A  painter's  fine  conception — such  an  one 

As  he  would  have  of  Ganymede,  and  weep 

Upon  his  pallet  that  he  could  not  win 

The  vision  to  his  easel.     Who  could  paint 

The  young  and  shadowless  spirit  ?     Who  could  chain 

The  visible  gladness  of  a  heart  that  lives, 

Like  a  glad  fountain,  in  the  eye  of  light, 

With  an  unbreathing  pencil  ?     Nature's  gift 

Has  nothing  that  is  like  it.     Sun  and  stream, 

And  the  new  leaves  of  June,  and  the  young  lark 

That  flees  away  into  the  depths  of  heaven, 

Lost  in  his  own  wild  music,  and  the  breath 

Of  springtime,  and  the  summer  eve,  and  noon 

In  the  cool  autumn,  are  like  fingers  swept 

Over  sweet-toned  affections — but  the  joy 

That  enters  to  the  spirit  of  a  child 

Is  deep  as  his  young  heart  :  his  very  breath, 

The  simple  sense  of  being,  is  enough 

To  ravish  him,  and  like  a  thrilling  touch 

He  feels  each  moment  of  his  life  go  by. 

Beautiful,  beautiful  childhood  !  with  a  joy 
That  like  a  robe  is  palpable,  and  flung 
Out  by  your  every  motion  !  delicate  bud 
Of  the  immortal  flower  that  will  unfold 
And  come  to  its  maturity  in  heaven  ! 
I  weep  your  earthly  glory.     'Tis  a  light 
Lent  to  the  new-born  spirit,  that  goes  out 
With  the  first  idle  wind.     It  is  the  leaf 


(  235  ) 

Fresh  flung  upon  the  river,  that  will  dance 
Upon  the  wave  that  stealeth  out  its  life, 
Then  sink  of  its  own  heaviness.     The  face 
Of  the  delightful  earth  will  to  your  eye 
Grow  dim  ;  the  fragrance  of  the  many  flowers 
Be  noticed  not,  and  the  beguiling  voice 
Of  nature  in  her  gentleness  will  be 
To  manhood's  senseless  ear  inaudible. 
I  sigh  to  look  upon  thy  face,  young  boy  I 


HERO. 

Claudio.    Know  you  any,  Hero  7 
Hero.    None,  my  lord ! 

As  You  Like  It. 

GENTLE  and  modest  Hero  !     I  can  see 
Her  delicate  figure,  and  her  soft  blue  eye, 
Like  a  warm  vision — lovely  as  she  stood, 
Veil'd  in  the  presence  of  young  Claudio. 
Modesty  bows  her  head,  and  that  young  heart 
That  would  endure  all  suffering  for  the  love 
It  hideth,  is  as  tremulous  as  the  leaf 
Forsaken  of  the  Summer.     She  hath  flung 
Her  all  upon  the  venture  of  her  vow, 
And  in  her  trust  leans  meekly,  like  a  flower 


(  236  ) 

By  the  still  river  tempted  from  its  stem, 
And  on  its  bosom  floating. 

Once  again 

I  see  her,  and  she  stand eth  in  her  pride, 
With  her  soft  eye  enkindled,  and  her  lip 
Curled  with  its  sweet  resentment,  like  a  line 
Of  lifeless  coral.     She  hath  heard  the  voice 
That  was  her  music  utter  it,  and  still 
To  her  affection  faithful,  she  hath  turn'd 
And  question'd,  in  her  innocent  unbelief, 
"  Is  my  lord  well,  that  he  should  speak  so  wide  ?" — 
How  did  they  look  upon  that  open  brow, 
And  not  read  purity  ?     Alas  for  truth  ! 
It  hath  so  many  counterfeits.     The  words, 
That  to  a  child  were  written  legibly, 
Are  by  the  wise  mistaken,  and  when  light 
Hath  made  the  brow  transparent,  and  the  face 
Is  like  an  angel's — virtue  is  so  fair — 
They  read  it  like  an  over-blotted  leaf, 
And  break  the  heart  that  wrote  it. 


(237) 


IDLENESS. 

"Idleness  is  sweet  and  sacred." 

WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR. 

"  "When  you  have  found  a  day  to  be  idle,  be  idle  for  a  day. 
When  you  have  met  with  three  cups  to  drink,  drink  your  three  cups." 

CHINESE  POET. 

THE  rain  is  playing  its  soft  pleasant  tune 
Fitfully  on  the  skylight,  and  the  shade 
Of  the  fast-flying  clouds  across  my  book 
Passes  with  delicate  change.     My  merry  fire 
Sings  cheerfully  to  itself ;  my  musing  cat 
Purrs  as  she  wakes  from  her  unquiet  sleep, 
And  looks  into  my  face  as  if  she  felt, 
Like  me,  the  gentle  influence  of  the  rain. 
Here  have  I  sat  since  morn,  reading  sometimes, 
And  sometimes  listening  to  the  faster  fall 
Of  the  large  drops,  or  rising  with  the  stir 
Of  an  unbidden  thought,  have  walk'd  awhile. 
With  the  slow  steps  of  indolence,  my  room, 
And  then  sat  down  composedly  again 
To  my  quaint  book  of  olden  poetry. 

It  is  a  kind  of  idleness,  I  know  ; 
And  I  am  said  to  be  an  idle  man — 
And  it  is  very  true.     I  love  to  go 
Out  in  the  pleasant  sun,  and  let  my  eye 
Rest  on  the  human  faces  that  pass  by, 


(  238  ) 

Each  with  its  gay  or  busy  interest  : 

And  then  I  muse  upon  their  lot,  and  read 

Many  a  lesson  in  their  changeful  cast, 

And  so  grow  kind  of  heart,  as  if  the  sight 

Of  human  beings  were  humanity. 

And  I  am  better  after  it,  and  go 

More  gratefully  to  my  rest,  and  feel  a  love 

Stirring  my  heart  to  every  living  thing  ; 

And  my  low  prayer  has  more  humility, 

And  I  sink  lightlier  to  my  dreams — and  this, 

}Tis  very  true,  is  only  idleness  ! 

I  love  to  go  and  mingle  with  the  young 
In  the  gay  festal  room — when  every  heart 
Is  beating  faster  than  the  merry  tune, 
And  their  blue  eyes  are  restless,  and  their  lips 
Parted  with  eager  joy,  and  their  round  cheeks 
Flush'd  with  the  beautiful  motion  of  the  dance. 
And  I  can  look  upon  such  things,  and  go 
Back  to  my  solitude,  and  dream  bright  dreams 
For  their  fast  coming  years,  and  speak  of  them 
Earnestly  in  my  prayer,  till  I  am  glad 
With  a  benevolent  joy — and  this,  I  know, 
To  the  world's  eye  is  only  idleness  ! 

And  when  the  clouds  pass  suddenly  away, 
And  the  blue  sky  is  like  a  newer  world, 
And  the  sweet-growing  things — forest  and  flower, 
Humble  and  beautiful  alike — are  all 
Breathing  up  odors  to  the  very  heaven — 


(  239  ) 

Or  when  the  frost  has  yielded  to  the  sun 
In  the  rich  autumn,  and  the  filmy  mist 
Lies  like  a  silver  lining  on  the  sky, 
And  the  clear  air  exhilarates,  and  life 
Simply,  is  luxury — and  when  the  hush 
Of  twilight,  like  a  gentle  sleep,  steals  on, 
And  the  birds  settle  to  their  nests,  and  stars 
Spring  in  the  upper  sky,  and  there  is  not 
A  sound  that  is  not  low  and  musical — 
At  all  these  pleasant  seasons  I  go  out 
With  my  first  impulse  guiding  me,  and  take 
Wood-path  or  stream,  or  slope  by  hill  or  vale, 
And  in  my  recklessness  of  heart,  stray  on, 
Glad  with  the  birds,  and  silent  with  the  leaves, 
And  happy  with  the  fair  and  blessed  world — 
And  this,  'tis  true,  is  only  idleness  ! 

And  I  should  love  to  go  up  to  the  sky, 
And  course  the  heavens,  like  stars,  and  float  away 
Upon  the  gliding  clouds  that  have  no  stay 
In  their  swift  journey — and  'twould  be  a  joy 
To  walk  the  chambers  of  the  deep,  and  tread 
The  pearls  of  its  untrodden  floor,  and  know 
The  tribes  of  the  unfathomable  depths — 
Dwellers  beneath  the  pressure  of  a  sea  ! 
And  I  should  love  to  issue  with  the  wind 
On  a  strong  errand,  and  o'ersweep  the  earth 
With  its  broad  continents  and  islands  green, 
Like  to  the  passing  of  a  spirit  on  ! — 
And  this,  'tis  true,  were  only  idleness  ! 


(240) 


THE  BURIAL  OF  THE  CHAMPION  OF  HIS  CLASS, 
AT  YALE  COLLEGE. 

YE'VE  gather'd  to  your  place  of  prayer 

With  slow  and  measured  tread  : 
Your  ranks  are  full,  your  mates  all  there — 

But  the  soul  of  one  has  fled. 
He  was  the  proudest  in  his  strength, 

The  manliest  of  ye  all  ; 
Why  lies  he  at  that  fearful  length, 

And  ye  around  his  pall  ? 

Ye  reckon  it  in  days,  since  he 

Strode  up  that  foot-worn  aisle, 
With  his  dark  eye  flashing  gloriously, 

And  his  lip  wreathed  with  a  smile. 
O,  had  it  been  but  told  you,  then, 

To  mark  whose  lamp  was  dim — 
From  out  yon  rank  of  fresh-lipp'd  men, 

Would  ye  have  singled  him  ? 

Whose  was  the  sinewy  arm,  that  flung 

Defiance  to  the  ring  ? 
Whose  laugh  of  victory  loudest  rung — 

Yet  not  for  glorying  ? 
Whose  heart,  in  generous  deed  and  thought, 

No  rivalry  might  brook, 


(241) 

And  yet  distinction  claiming  not  ? 
There  lies  he — go  and  look  ! 

On  now — his  requiem  is  done, 

The  last  deep  prayer  is  said — 
On  to  his  burial,  comrades — on, 

With  the  noblest  of  the  dead  ! 
Slow — for  it  presses  heavily — 

It  is  a  man  ye  bear  ! 
Slow,  for  our  thoughts  dwell  wearily 

On  the  noble  sleeper  there. 

Tread  lightly,  comrades  ! — we  have  laid 

His  dark  locks  on  his  brow — 
Like  life — save  deeper  light  and  shade  : 

We'll  not  disturb  them  now. 
Tread  lightly — for  'tis  beautiful, 

That  blue-vein'd  eyelid's  sleep, 
Hiding  the  eye  death  left  so  dull — 

Its  slumber  we  will  keep. 

Rest  now  !  his  journeying  is  done — 

Your  feet  are  on  his  sod — 
Death's  chain  is  on  your  champion — 

He  waiteth  here  his  God. 
Ay — turn  and  weep — 'tis  manliness 

To  be  heart-broken  here — 
For  the  grave  of  earth's  best  nobleness 

Is  water'd  by  the  tear. 


(242) 


SPRING. 

"L'onda  del  mar  divisa 
Bagna  la  valle  e  1'monte, 

Va  passegiera 

In  fiume, 

Va  prigionera 

In  fonte, 

Mormora  sempre  e  geme 
Fin  che  non  torna  al  mar.' 


METASTASIO. 


THE  Spring  is  here — the  delicate-footed  May, 
With  its  slight  fingers  full  of  leaves  and  flowers, 

And  with  it  comes  a  thirst  to  be  away, 

Wasting  in  wood-paths  its  voluptuous  hours— 

A  feeling  that  is  like  a  sense  of  wings, 

Restless  to  soar  above  these  perishing  things. 

We  pass  out  from  the  city's  feverish  hum, 
To  find  refreshment  in  the  silent  woods  ; 

And  nature,  that  is  beautiful  and  dumb, 
Like  a  cool  sleep  upon  the  pulses  broods — 

Yet,  even  there,  a  restless  thought  will  steal, 

To  teach  the  indolent  heart  it  still  must  feel. 

Strange,  that  the  audible  stillness  of  the  noon, 

The  waters  tripping  with  their  silver  feet, 
The  turning  to  the  light  of  leaves  in  June, 


(243) 

And  the  light  whisper  as  their  edges  meet — 
Strange — that  they  fill  not,  with  their  tranquil  tone, 
The  spirit,  walking  in  their  midst  alone. 

There's  no  contentment  in  a  world  like  this, 
Save  in  forgetting  the  immortal  dream  ; 

We  may  not  gaze  upon  the  stars  of  bliss, 

That  through  the  cloud-rifts  radiantly  stream ; 

Bird-like,  the  prison'd  soul  will  lift  its  eye 

And  pine  till  it  is  hooded  from  the  sky. 


ON  A  PICTURE  OF  A  GIRL  LEADING  HER  BLIND  MOTHER 
THROUGH  THE  WOOD. 

THE  green  leaves  as  we  pass 
Lay  their  light  fingers  on  thee  unaware, 
And  by  thy  side  the  hazels  cluster  fair, 

And  the  low  forest-grass 

Grows  green  and  silken  where  the  wood-paths  wind — 
Alas  !  for  thee,  sweet  mother  !  thou  art  blind  ! 

And  nature  is  all  bright  ; 
And  the  faint  gray  and  crimson  of  the  dawn, 
Like  folded  curtains  from  the  day  are  drawn  ; 

And  evening's  purple  light 


(244) 

Quivers  in  tremulous  softness  on  the  sky — 
Alas  !  sweet  mother  !  for  thy  clouded  eye  ! 

The  moon's  new  silver  shell 
Trembles  above  thee,  and  the  stars  float  up, 
In  the  blue  air,  and  the  rich  tulip's  cup 

Is  pencill'd  passing  well, 

And  the  swift  birds  on  glorious  pinions  flee — 
Alas  !  sweet  mother  !  that  thou  canst  not  see  ! 

And  the  kind  looks  of  friends 
Peruse  the  sad  expression  in  thy  face, 
And  the  child  stops  amid  his  bounding  race, 

And  the  tall  stripling  bends 
Low  to  thine  ear  with  duty  unforgot — 
Alas  !  sweet  mother  !  that  thou  seest  them  not  ! 

But  thou  canst  hear  !  and  love 
May  richly  on  a  human  tone  be  pour'd, 
And  the  least  cadence  of  a  whisper'd  word 

A  daughter's  love  may  prove — 
And  while  I  speak  thou  knowest  if  I  smile, 
Albeit  thou  canst  not  see  my  face  the  while  ! 

Yes,  thou  canst  hear  !  and  He 
Who  on  thy  sightless  eye  its  darkness  hung, 
To  the  attentive  ear,  like  harps,  hath  strung 

Heaven  and  earth  and  sea  ! 
And  'tis  a  lesson  in  our  hearts  to  know — 
With  lut  one  sense  the  soul  may  overflow. 


(245) 


ROARING  BROOK. 
[A  passage  of  scenery  in  Connecticut.] 

IT  was  a  mountain  stream  that  with  the  leap 

Of  its  impatient  waters  had  worn  out 

A  channel  in  the  rock,  and  wash'd  away 

The  earth  that  had  upheld  the  tall  old  trees, 

Till  it  was  darken'd  with  the  shadowy  arch 

Of  the  o'er-leaning  branches.     Here  and  there 

It  loiter'd  in  a  broad  and  limpid  pool 

That  circled  round  demurely,  and  anon 

Sprung  violently  over  where  the  rock 

Fell  suddenly,  and  bore  its  bubbles  on, 

Till  they  were  broken  by  the  hanging  moss, 

As  anger  with  a  gentle  word  grows  calm. 

In  spring-time,  when  the  snows  were  coming  down, 

And  in  the  flooding  of  the  autumn  rains, 

No  foot  might  enter  there — but  in  the  hot 

And  thirsty  summer,  when  the  fountains  slept, 

You  could  go  up  its  channel  in  the  shade, 

To  the  far  sources,  with  a  brow  as  cool 

As  in  the  grotto  of  the  anchorite. 

Here  when  an  idle  student  have  I  come, 

And  in  a  hollow  of  the  rock  lain  down 

And  mused  until  the  eventide,  or  read 

Some  fine  old  poet  till  my  nook  became 

A  haunt  of  faery,  or  the  busy  flow 


(246) 

Of  water  to  my  spell-bewilder'd  ear 

Seem'd  like  the  din  of  some  gay  tournament. 

Pleasant  have  been  such  hours,  and  though  the  wise 

Have  said  that  I  was  indolent,  and  they 

Who  taught  me  have  reproved  me  that  I  play'd 

The  truant  in  the  leafy  month  of  June, 

I  deem  it  true  philosophy  in  him 

Whose  path  is  in  the  rude  and  busy  world, 

To  loiter  with  these  wayside  comforters. 


AN  APOLOGY 
For  avoiding,  after  long  separation,  a  woman  once  loved. 

SEE  me  no  more  on  earth,  I  pray  ; 

Thy  picture,  in  my  memory  now, 
Is  fair  as  morn,  and  fresh  as  May  ! 

Few  were  as  beautiful  as  thou  ! 
And  still  I  see  that  willowy  form — 

And  still  that  cheek  like  roses  dyed — 
And  still  that  dark  eye,  deep  and  warm — 

Thy  look  of  love — thy  step  of  pride  ! — 
Thy  memory  is  a  star  to  me, 
More  bright  as  day-beams  fade  and  flee. 

But  thou,  indeed  ! — Ah  !  years  have  fled, 
And  thou,  like  others,  changed  the  while— 


(247) 

For  joy  upon  the  lip  lies  dead 

If  pain  but  cloud  the  sunny  smile  ! 

And  care  will  make  the  roses  pale, 

And  tears  will  soil  the  lily's  whiteness, 

And  ere  life's  lamp  begins  to  fail 

The  eye  forgets  its  trick  of  brightness  ! 

Look  for  the  rose  of  dawn  at  noon, 

And  weep  for  beauty  lost  as  soon  ! 

Cold  words  that  hide  the  envious  thought  / 

I  could  not  bear  thy  face  to  see — 
But  oh,  'tis  not  that  time  has  wrought 

A  change  in  features  dear  to  me  ! 
No  !  had  it  been  my  lot  to  share 

The  fragrance  of  the  flower  decay'd — 
If  I  had  borne  but  half  the  care 

That  on  thy  brow  its  burden  laid — 
If  in  my  love  thou'dst  burn'd  away, 
The  ashes  still  had  warm'd  the  heart  so  cold  to-day  ! 


TO  HELEN  IN  A  HUFF. 


NAY,  lady,  one  frown  is  enough 
In  a  life  as  soon  over  as  this — 

And  though  minutes  seem  long  in  a  huff, 
They're  minutes  'tis  pity  to  miss  I 


(248) 

The  smiles  you  imprison  so  lightly 
Are  reckon'd,  like  days  in  eclipse  ; 

And  though  you  may  smile  again  brightly, 
You've  lost  so  much  light  from  your  lips  ! 
Pray,  lady,  smile  ! 

The  cup  that  is  longest  untasted 

May  be  with  our  bliss  running  o'er, 
And,  love  when  we  will,  we  have  wasted 

An  age  in  not  loving  before  ! 
Perchance  Cupid's  forging  a  fetter 

To  tie  us  together  some  day, 
And,  just  for  the  chance,  we  had  better 

Be  laying  up  love,  I  should  say  ! 
Nay,  lady,  smile  ! 


CITY  LYRICS 

Argument.— The  poet  starts  from  the  Bowling  Green  to  take  his  sweet 
heart  up  to  Thompson's  for  an  ice,  or  (if  she  is  inclined  for  more)  ices. 
He  confines  his  muse  to  matters  which  any  every-day  man  and  young 
woman  may  see  in  taking  the  same  promenade  for  the  same  innocent 
refreshment. 

COME  out,  love — the  night  is  enchanting  ! 

The  moon  hangs  just  over  Broadway  ; 
The  stars  are  all  lighted  and  panting — 

(Hot  weather  up  there,  I  dare  say  !) 


(  249) 

'Tis  seldom  that  "  coolness"  entices, 
And  love  is  no  better  for  chilling — 

But  come  up  to  Thompson's  for  ices, 

And  cool  your  warm  heart  for  a  shilling  ! 

What  perfume  comes  balmily  o'er  us  ? 

Mint  juleps  from  City  Hotel  ! 
A  loafer  is  smoking  before  us — 

(A  nasty  cigar,  by  the  smell  !) 
Oh  Woman  !  thou  secret  past  knowing  ! 

Like  lilachs  that  grow  by  the  wall, 
You  breathe  every  air  that  is  going, 

Yet  gather  but  sweetness  from  all  ! 

On,  on  !  by  St.  Paul's,  and  the  Astor  ! 

Religion  seems  very  ill-plann'd  ! 
For  one  day  we  list  to  the  pastor, 

For  six  days  we  list  to  the  band  ! 
The  sermon  may  dwell  on  the  future, 

The  organ  your  pulses  may  calm — 
When — pest ! — that  remember'd  cachucha 

Upsets  both  the  sermon  and  psalm  ! 

Oh,  pity  the  love  that  must  utter 

While  goes  a  swift  omnibus  by  ! 
(Though  sweet  is  /  scream*  when  the  flutter 

Of  fans  shows  thermometers  high) — 
But  if  what  I  bawl,  or  I  mutter, 

*  Query.— Should  this  be  Ice  cream,  or  /  scream  7— Printer1  s  Devil. 


(250) 

Falls  into  your  ear  but  to  die, 
Oh,  the  dew  that  falls  into  the  gutter 
Is  not  more  unhappy  than  I ! 


TO  THE  LADY  IN  THE  CHEMISETTE  WITH  BLACK 
BUTTONS. 

I  KNOW  not  who  thou  art,  oh  lovely  one  ! 

Thine  eyes  were  droop'd,  thy  lips  half  sorrowful- 

Yet  thou  didst  eloquently  smile  on  me 

While  handing  up  thy  sixpence  through  the  hole 

Of  that  o'er-freighted  omnibus  !     Ah  me  ! 

The  world  is  full  of  meetings  such  as  this — 

A  thrill,  a  voiceless  challenge  and  reply — 

And  sudden  partings  after  !     We  may  pass, 

And  know  not  of  each  other's  nearness  now — 

Thou  in  the  Knickerbocker  Line,  and  I, 

Lone,  in  the  Waverley  !     Oh,  life  of  pain  ! 

And  even  should  I  pass  where  thou  dost  dwell — 

Nay — see  thee  in  the  basement  taking  tea — 

So  cold  is  this  inexorable  world, 

I  must  glide  on  !     I  dare  not  feast  mine  eye  I 

I  dare  not  make  articulate  my  love, 

Nor  o'er  the  iron  rails  that  hem  thee  in 

Venture  to  fling  to  thee  my  innocent  card — 

Not  knowing  thy  papa  ! 


(251) 

Hast  thou  papa  ? 
Is  thy  progenitor  alive,  fair  girl  ? 
And  what  doth  he  for  lucre  ?     Lo  again  ! 
A  shadow  o'er  the  face  of  this  fair  dream  ! 
For  thou  mayst  be  as  beautiful  as  Love 
Can  make  thee,  and  the  ministering  hands 
Of  milliners,  incapable  of  more, 
Be  lifted  at  thy  shapeliness  and  air, 
And  still  'twixt  me  and  thee,  invisibly, 
May  rise  a  wall  of  adamant.     My  breath 
Upon  my  pale  lip  freezes  as  I  name 
Manhattan's  orient  verge,  and  eke  the  west 
In  its  far  down  extremity.     Thy  sire 
May  be  the  signer  of  a  temperance  pledge, 
And  clad  all  decently  may  walk  the  earth — 
Nay — may  be  number'd  with  that  blessed  few 
Who  never  ask  for  discount — yet,  alas  ! 
If,  homeward  wending  from  his  daily  cares, 
He  go  by  Murphy's   Line,  thence  eastward  tending- 
Or  westward  from  the  Line  01  Kipp  &  Brown, — 
My  vision  is  departed  !     Harshly  falls 
The  doom  upon  the  ear,  "  She's  not  genteel  I" 
And  pitiless  is  woman  who  doth  keep 
Of  "  good  society"  the  golden  key  ! 
And  gentlemen  are  bound,  as  are  the  stars, 
To  stoop  not  after  rising  ! 

But  farewell, 

And  I  shall  look  for  thee  in  streets  where  dwell 
The  passengers  by  Broadway  Lines  alone  ! 


(252) 

And  if  my  dreams  be  true,  and  thou,  indeed, 
Art  only  not  more  lovely  than  genteel — 
Then,  lady  of  the  snow-white  chemisette, 
The  heart  which  vent'rously  cross'd  o'er  to  thee 
Upon  that  bridge  of  sixpence,  may  remain — 
And,  with  up-town  devotedness  and  truth, 
My  love  shall  hover  round  thee  ! 


THE  LADY  IN  THE  WHITE  DRESS,  WHOM  I  HELPED  INTO 
THE  OMNIBUS. 

I  KNOW  her  not  !     Her  hand  has  been  in  mine, 

And  the  warm  pressure  of  her  taper  arm 

Has  thrill 'd  upon  my  fingers,  and  the  hem 

Of  her  white  dress  has  lain  upon  my  feet, 

Till  my  hush'd  puise,  by  the  caressing  folds, 

Was  kindled  to  a  fever  !     I,  to  her, 

Am  but  the  undistinguishable  leaf 

Blown  by  upon  the  breeze — yet  I  have  sat, 

And  in  the  blue  depths  of  her  stainless  eyes, 

(Close  as  a  lover  in  his  hour  of  bliss, 

And  steadfastly  as  look  the  twin  stars  down 

Into  unfathomable  wells,)  have  gazed  ! 

And  I  have  felt  from  out  its  gate  of  pearl 

Her  warm  breath  on  my  cheek,  and  while  she  sat 

Dreaming  away  the  moments,  I  have  tried 


(253) 

To  count  the  long  dark  lashes  in  the  fringe 

Of  her  bewildering  eyes  !     The  kerchief  sweet 

That  enviably  visits  her  red  lip 

Has  slumber'd,  while  she  held  it,  on  my  knee, — 

And  her  small  foot  has  crept  between  mine  own — 

And  yet,  she  knows  me  not  ! 

Now,  thanks  to  heaven 

For  blessings  chainless  in  the  rich  man's  keeping — 
Wealth  that  the  miser  cannot  hide  away  ! 
Buy,  if  they  will,  the  invaluable  flower — 
They  cannot  store  its  fragrance  from  the  breeze  ! 
Wear,  if  they  will,  the  costliest  gem  of  Ind — 
It  pours  its  light  on  every  passing  eye  ! 
And  he  who  on  this  beauty  sets  his  name — 
Who  dreams,  perhaps,  that  for  his  use  alone 
Such  loveliness  was  first  of  angels  born — 
Tell  him,  oh  whisperer  at  his  dreaming  ear, 
That  I  too,  in  her  beauty,  sun  my  eye, 
And,  unrebuked,  may  worship  her  in  song — 
Tell  him  that  heaven,  along  our  darkling  way, 
Hath  set  bright  lamps  with  loveliness  alight — 
And  all  may  in  their  guiding  beams  rejoice  ; 
But  he — as  'twere  a  watcher  by  a  lamp — 
Guards  but  this  bright  one's  shining. 


(254) 


THE  WHITE  CHIP  HAT. 

I  PASS'D  her  one  day  in  a  hurry, 

When  late  for  the  Post  with  a  letter — 
I  think  near  the  corner  of  Murray — 

And  up  rose  my  heart  as  I  met  her  ! 
I  ne'er  saw  a  parasol  handled 

So  like  to  a  dutchess's  doing — 
I  ne'er  saw  a  slighter  foot  sandall'd, 

Or  so  fit  to  exhale  in  the  shoeing — 
Lovely  thing  ! 

Surprising  ! — one  woman  can  dish  us 

So  many  rare  sweets  up  together  ! 
Tournure  absolutely  delicious — 

Chip  hat  without  flower  or  feather — 
Well-gloved  and  enchantingly  boddiced, 

Her  waist  like  the  cup  of  a  lily — 
And  an  air,  that,  while  daintily  modest, 

Repell'd  both  the  saucy  and  silly — 
Quite  the  thing  ! 

For  such  a  rare  wonder  you'll  say,  sir, 
There's  reason  in  straining  one's  tether- 

And,  to  see  her  again  in  Broadway,  sir. 
Who  would  not  be  lavish  of  leather  ! 


(  255  ) 

I  met  her  again,  and  as  you  know 
I'm  sage  as  old  Voltaire  at  Ferney — 

But  1  said  a  bad  word — for  my  Juno 
Look'd  sweet  on  a  sneaking  attorney — 
Horrid  thing  ! 

Away  flies  the  dream  I  had  nourish'd — 

My  castles  like  mockery  fall,  sir  ! 
And,  now,  the  fine  airs  that  she  flourish'd 

Seem  varnish  and  crockery  all,  sir  ! 
The  bright  cup  which  angels  might  handle 

Turns  earthy  when  finger'd  by  asses — 
And  the  star  that  "swaps"  light  with  a  candle, 

Thenceforth  for  a  pennyworth  passes  ! — 
Not  the  thing  ! 


YOU  KNOW  IF  IT  WAS  YOU. 

As  the  chill'd  robin,  bound  to  Florida 
Upon  a  morn  of  autumn,  crosses  flying 
The  air-track  of  a  snipe  most  passing  fair — 
Yet  colder  in  her  blood  than  she  is  fair — 
And  as  that  robin  lingers  on  the  wing, 
And  feels  the  snipe's  flight  in  the  eddying  air, 
And  loves  her  for  her  coldness  not  the  less — 


(256) 

But  fain  would  win  her  to  that  warmer  sky 

Where  love  lies  waking  with  the  fragrant  stars — 

So  I — a  languisher  for  sunnier  climes, 

Where  fruit,  leaf,  blossom,  on  the  trees  forever 

Image  the  tropic  deathlessness  of  love — 

Have  met,  and  long'd  to  win  thee,  fairest  lady, 

To  a  more  genial  clime  than  cold  Broadway  ! 

Tranquil  and  effortless  thou  glidest  on, 
As  doth  the  swan  upon  the  yielding  water, 
And  with  a  cheek  like  alabaster  cold  ! 
But  as  thou  didst  divide  the  amorous  air 
Just  opposite  the  Astor,  and  didst  lift 
That  veil  of  languid  lashes  to  look  in 
At  Leary's  tempting  window — lady  !  then 
My  heart  sprang  in  beneath  that  fringed  veil, 
Like  an  adventurous  bird  that  would  escape 
To  some  warm  chamber  from  the  outer  cold  ! 
And  there  would  I  delightedly  remain, 
And  close  that  fringed  window  with  a  kiss, 
And  in  the  warm  sweet  chamber  of  thy  breast, 
Be  prisoner  forever  ! 


(257) 


LOVE  IN  A  COTTAGE. 

THEY  may  talk  of  love  in  a  cottage, 

And  bowers  of  trellised  vine — 
Of  nature  bewitchingly  simple, 

And  milkmaids  half  divine  ; 
They  may  talk  of  the  pleasure  of  sleeping 

In  the  shade  of  a  spreading  tree, 
And  a  walk  in  the  fields  at  morning, 

By  the  side  of  a  footstep  free  ! 

But  give  me  a  sly  flirtation 

By  the  light  of  a  chandelier — 
With  music  to  play  in  the  pauses, 

And  nobody  very  near  ; 
Or  a  seat  on  a  silken  sofa, 

With  a  glass  of  pure  old  wine, 
And  mamma  too  blind  to  discover 

The  small  white  hand  in  mine. 

Your  love  in  a  cottage  is  hungry, 

Your  vine  is  a  nest  for  flies — 
Your  milkmaid  shocks  the  Graces, 

And  simplicity  talks  of  pies  ! 
You  lie  down  to  your  shady  slumber 

And  wake  with  a  bug  in  your  ear, 

22" 


(258) 

And  your  damsel  that  walks  in  the  morning 
Is  shod  like  a  mountaineer. 

True  love  is  at  home  on  a  carpet, 

And  mightily  likes  his  ease — 
And  true  love  has  an  eye  for  a  dinner, 

And  starves  beneath  shady  trees. 
His  wing  is  the  fan  of  a  lady, 

His  foot's  an  invisible  thing, 
And  his  arrow  is  tipp'd  with  a  jewel, 

And  shot  from  a  silver  string. 


THE  DECLARATION. 

'TWAS  late,  and  the  gay  company  was  gone, 
And  light  lay  soft  on  the  deserted  room 
From  alabaster  vases,  and  a  scent 
Of  orange  leaves,  and  sweet  verbena  came 
Through  the  unshutter'd  window  on  the  air, 
And  the  rich  pictures  with  their  dark  old  tints 
Hung  like  a  twilight  landscape,  and  all  things 
Seem'd  hush'd  into  a  slumber.     Isabel, 
The  dark-eyed,  spiritual  Isabel 
Was  leaning  on  her  harp,  and  I  had  stay'd 
To  whisper  what  I  could  not  when  the  crowd 
Hung  on  her  look  like  worshippers.     I  knelt, 


(  259  ) 

And  with  the  fervor  of  a  lip  unused 
To  the  cool  breath  of  reason,  told  my  love. 
There  was  no  answer,  and  I  took  the  hand 
That  rested  on  the  strings,  and  press'd  a  kiss 
Upon  it  unforbidden — and  again 
Besought  her,  that  this  silent  evidence 
That  I  was  not  indifferent  to  her  heart, 
Might  have  the  seal  of  one  sweet  syllable. 
I  kiss'd  the  small  white  fingers  as  I  spoke, 
And  she  withdrew  them  gently,  and  upraised 
Her  forehead  from  its  resting-place,  and  look'd 
Earnestly  on  me — She  had  been  asleep  ! 


THE  LADY  JANE. 


(263) 


THE  LADY  JANE: 


A  HUMOROUS  NOVEL   IN  RHYME, 


THERE  was  a  lady — fair,  and  forty  too. 

There  was  a  youth  of  scarcely  two  and  twenty. 
The  story  of  their  loves  is  strange,  yet  true. 

I'll  tell  it  you  !     Romances  are  so  plenty 
In  prose,  that  you'll  be  glad  of  something  new. 

And  so  (in  rhyme)  for  "  what  the  devil  meant  he  !" 
You  think  he  was  too  young  ! — but  tell  me  whether 
The  moth  and  humming-bird  grow  old  together  ! 

n. 

Nature,  that  made  the  ivy-leaf  and  lily, 

Not  of  one  warp  and  woof  hath  made  us  all ! 

Bent  goes  the  careful,  and  erect  the  silly, 

And  wear  and  tear  make  difference — not  small  ; 

And  he  that  hath  no  money — will-he,  nill-he — 
Is  thrust  like  an  old  man  against  the  wall ! 

Grief  out  of  some  the  very  life-blood  washes  ; 

Some  shed  it  like  ducks'  backs  and  "  Mackintoshes." 


(264) 

III. 

The  Lady  Jane  was  daughter  of  an  Earl — 

Shut  from  approach  like  sea-nymph  in  her  shell. 

Never  a  rude  breath  stirr'd  the  floating  curl 
Upon  her  marble  temple,  and  naught  fell 

Upon  the  ear  of  the  patrician  girl 

But  pride-check'd  syllables,  all  measured  well. 

Her  suitors  were  her  father's  and  not  hers — 

So  were  her  debts  at  "  Storr-and-Mortimer's." 

IV. 

Her  health  was  lady-like.     No  blood,  in  riot, 
Tangled  the  tracery  of  her  veine"d  cheek, 

Nor  seem'd  her  exquisite  repose  the  quiet 
Of  one  by  suffering  made  sweet  and  meek. 

She  ate  and  drank,  and  probably  lived  by  it, 
And  liked  her  cup  of  tea  by  no  means  weak  ! 

Untroubled  by  debt,  lovers,  or  affliction, 

Her  pulse  beat  with  extremely  little  friction. 


Yet  was  there  fire  within  her  soft  gray  eye, 
And  room  for  pressure  on  her  lip  of  rose  ; 

And  few  who  saw  her  gracefully  move  by, 
Imagined  that  her  feelings  slept,  or  froze. 

You  may  have  seen  the  cunning  florist  tie 
A  thread  about  a  bud,  which  never  blows, 

But,  with  shut  chalice  from  the  sun  and  rain, 

Hoards  up  the  morn — and  such  the  Lady  Jane. 


(265) 

VI. 

The  old  lord  had  had  offers  for  her  hand, 
The  which  he  answer'd — by  his  secretary. 

And,  doubtless,  some  were  for  the  lady's  land, 
The  men  being  old  and  valetudinary  ; 

But  there  were  others  who  were  all  unmann'd, 
And  fell  into  a  life  of  wild  vagary, 

In  their  despair.     To  tell  his  daughter  of  it, 

The  cold  Earl  thought  would  be  but  little  profit. 

VII. 

And  so  she  bloom'd — all  fenced  around  with  care  ; 

And  none  could  find  a  way  to  win  or  woo  her. 
When  visible  at  home — the  Earl  was  there  ! 

Abroad — her  chaperon  stuck  closely  to  her  ! 
She  was  a  sort  of  nun  in  open  air, 

Known  to  but  few,  and  intimate  with  fewer  : 
And,  always  used  to  conversation  guarded, 
She  thought  all  men  talk'd  just  as  her  papa  did. 

vm. 

Pause  while  you  read,  oh,  Broadway  demoiselle  I 
And  bless  your  stars  that  long  before  you  marry, 

You  are  a  judge  of  passion  pleaded  well  ! 

For  you  have  listen'd  to  Tom,  Dick,  and  Harry, 

And,  if  kind  Heaven  endow'd  you  for  a  belle, 
At  least  your  destiny  did  not  miscarry  ! 

"  You've  had  your  fling" — and  now,  all  wise  and  steady, 

For  matrimony's  cares  you're  cool  and  ready  ! 


(  266  ) 

IX. 

And  yet  the  bloom  upon  the  fruit  is  fair  ! 

And  "  ignorance  is  bliss"  in  teaching  love  ! 
And  guarding  lips,  when  others  have  been  there, 

Is  apt  uneasy  reveries  to  move  ! 
I  really  think  mammas  should  have  a  care  ! 

And  though  of  nunneries  I  disapprove, 
'Tis  easier  to  make  blushes  hear  to  reason 
Than  to  unteach  a  "  Saratoga  Season." 

x. 

In  France,  where,  it  is  said,  they  wiser  are, 
Miss  may  not  walk  out,  even  with  her  cousin  ; 

And  when  she  is  abroad  from  bolt  and  bar, 

A  well-bred  man  should  be  to  her  quite  frozen  ; 

And  so  at  last,  like  a  high-priced  attar 
Hermetically  seal'd  in  silk  and  resin, 

She  is  deliver'd  safe  to  him  who  loves  her  ; 

And  then — with  whom  she  will  she's  hand  and  glove,  sir  ! 


I  know  this  does  not  work  well,  and  that  ours 

Are  the  best  wives  on  earth.     They  love  their  spouses, 

Who  prize  them — as  you  do  centennial  flowers, 

For  having  bloom'd,  though  not  in  your  green-houses. 

'Tis  a  bold  wooer  that  dare  talk  of  dowers. 
And  where  /  live,  the  milking  of  the  cows  is 

Too  rude  a  task  for  females  !     Well.     'Twould  hurt  you, 

Where  women  are  so  prized,  to  sneer  at  virtue. 


(267) 

XII. 

"  Free-born  Americans,"  they  must  have  freedom  ! 

They'll  stay — if  they  have  leave  to  run  away. 
They're  ministering  angels  when  you  need  'em, 

But  'specially  want  credit  in  Broadway. 
French  wives  are  more  particular  how  you  feed  'em, 

The  English  drag  you  oftener  to  the  play. 
But  ours  we  quite  enslave — (more  true  than  funny) — 
With  "  heaven-born  liberty,"  and  trust — or  money  ! 

xm. 

Upon  her  thirtieth  birth-day,  Lady  Jane 

Thought  sadly  on  the  twenties  f     Even  the  'teens, 

That  she  had  said  farewell  to,  without  pain — 

Leaves  falling  from  a  flower  that  nothing  means — 

Seem'd  worth  regathering  to  live  again  ; 

But  not  like  Ruth,  fares  Memory,  who  gleans 

After  the  careful  Harvester  of  years  : — 

The  Lady  Jane  thought  on't  with  bitter  tears  ! 

XIV. 

She  glided  to  her  mirror.     From  the  air 
Glided  to  meet  her,  with  its  tearful  eyes, 

A  semblance  sad,  but  beautifully  fair  ; 

And  gradually  there  stole  a  sweet  surprise 

Under  her  lids,  and  as  she  laid  the  hair 
Back  from  her  snowy  brow,  Madonna-wise, 

"  Time,  after  all,"  she  said,  "  a  harmless  flirt  is  !" 

And  from  that  hour  took  kindly  to  her  thirties. 


(268) 

xv. 

And,  with  his  honors  not  at  all  unsteady, 

The  Decimal  elect  stepp'd  coolly  in  ; 
And  having  all  his  nights  and  mornings  ready, 

He'd  very  little  trouble  to  begin. 
And   Twenty  was  quite  popular, — they  said  he 

Went  out  of  office  with  so  little  din  ! 
The  old  Earl  did  not  celebrate  (nor  ought  he) 
Her  birth-days  more.     And  like  a  dream  came  Forty. 

XVI. 

And  on  the  morn  of  it  she  stood  to  dress, 

Mock'd  by  that  flattering  semblance,  as  before, 

And  lifted  with  a  smile  the  raven  tress, 

That,  darkening  her  white  shoulder,  swept  the  floor. 

Time  had  not  touch'd  her  dazzling  loveliness  ! 
"  Yet  is  it  time,"  she  said,  "  that  I  give  o'er — 

Pm  an  old  maid  ! — and  though  I  suffer  by  it,  I 

Must  change  my  style  and  leave  off  gay  society." 

XVII. 

And  so  she  did.     Her  maid  by  her  desire 
Comb'd  her  luxuriant  locks  behind  her  ears  ; 

She  had  her  dresses  alter'd  to  come  higher, 
Though  it  dissolved  the  dress-maker  in  tears  ! 

And  flung  a  new  French  hat  into  the  fire, 

Which  she  had  bought,  "  forgetful  of  her  years." 

This  t'  anticipate  "the  world's  dread  laugh  !" 

Most  persons  think  too  much  of  it,  by  half. 


*  (  269  ) 

XVIII. 

I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  generally 

The  "  virtuous  single"  take  too  soon  to  tea  ; 

But  now  and  then  you  find  one  who  could  rally 
At  forty,  and  go  back  to  twenty-three — 

A  handsome,  plump,  affectionate  "  Aunt  Sally," 
With  no  taste  for  cats,  flannel,  and  Bohea  ! 

And  I  would  have  her,  spite  of  "  he  or  she  says," 

Up  heart,  and  pin  her  kerchief  as  she  pleases. 

XIX. 

Some  men,  'tis  said,  prefer  a  woman  fat — 
Lord  Byron  did.     Some  like  her  very  spare. 

Some  like  a  lameness.     (I  have  known  one  that 
Would  go  quite  far  enough  for  your  despair, 

And  halt  in  time.)     Some  like  them  delicate 
As  lilies,  and  with  some  "  the  only  wear" 

Is  one  whose  sex  has  spoil 'd  a  midshipman. 

Some  only  like  what  pleased  another  man. 

xx. 

/  like  one  that  likes  me.     But  there's  a  kind 

Of  women,  very  dangerous  to  poets, 
Whose  hearts  beat  with  a  truth  that  seems  like  mind — 

A  nature  that,  though  passionate,  will  show  its 
Devotion  by  not  being  rash  or  blind  ; 

But  by  sweet  study  grows  to  love.     And  so  it's 
Not  odd  if  they  are  counted  cold,  though  handsome, 
And  never  meet  a  man  who  understands  'em. 

23 


(  270  )  • 

xxr. 

By  never  I  mean  late  in  life.     But  ah  ! 

How  exquisite  their  love  and  friendship  then  ! 
Perennial  of  soul  such  women  are, 

And  readers  of  the  hearts  of  gifted  men  ; 
And  as  the  deep  well  mourns  the  hidden  star, 

And  mirrors  the  first  ray  that  beams  again, 
They — be  the  loved  light  lost  or  dimly  burning, 
Feel  all  its  clouds,  and  trust  its  bright  returning. 

XXII. 

In  outward  seeming  tranquil  and  subdued, 

Their  hearts  beneath  beat  youthfully  and  fast. 

Time  and  imprison'd  love  make  not  a  prude  ; 
And  warm  the  gift  we  know  to  be  the  last  ; 

And  pure  is  the  devotion  that  must  brood 
Upon  your  hopes  alone — for  hers  are  past  ! 

Trust  me,  "  a  rising  man"  rose  seldom  higher, 

But  some  dear,  sweet  old  maid  has  pull'd  the  wire. 

XXIII. 

The  Lady  Jane,  (pray  do  not  think  that  hers 
Was  quite  the  character  I've  drawn  above. 

Old  maids,  like  young,  have  various  calibres, 

And  hers  was  moderate,  though  she  was  "  a  love,") 

The  Lady  Jane  call'd  on  the  dowagers — 
Mainly  her  slight  acquaintance  to  improve, 

But  partly  with  a  docile  wish  to  know 

What  solaces  of  age  were  comme  il  faut. 


(271) 

XXIV. 

They  stared  at  her  plain  hat  and  air  demure, 
But  answer'd  her  with  some  particularity ; 

And  she  was  edified  you  may  be  sure, 
And  added  vastly  to  her  popularity. 

She  found  a  dozen  mad  on  furniture, 

Five  on  embroidery,  and  none  on  charity  ; 

But  her  last  call — the  others  were  but  short  ones — 

Turn'd  out  to  Lady  Jane  of  some  importance. 

xxv. 

The  door  was  open'd  by  a  Spanish  page — 
A  handsome  lad  in  green  with  bullet  buttons, 

Who  look'd  out  like  a  trulian  from  a  cage, 

And  deign'd  to  glance  at  the  tall  menial  but  once, 

Then  bent,  with  earnestness  beyond  his  age, 

His  eyes,  (you  would  have  liked  to  see  them  shut  once, 

The  fringes  were  so  long) — on  Lady  Jane. 

The  varlet  clearly  thought  her  not  so  plain. 

XXVI. 

And  bounding  up  the  flower-laden  stair, 

He  waited  her  ascent,  then  open  flung 
A  mirror,  clear  as  'twere  a  door  of  air, 

Which  on  its  silver  hinge  with  music  swung — 
Contrived  that  never  foot  should  enter  there 

Unheralded  by  that  melodious  tongue. 
This  delicate  alarum  is  worth  while 
More  'specially  with  carpets  of  three-pile. 


(272) 

XXVII. 

Beyond  a  gallery  extended,  cool, 

And  softly  lighted,  and,  from  dome  to  floor, 
Hung  pictures — mostly  the  Venetian  school  ; 

Each  "  worth  a  Jew's  eye" — very  likely  more  ; 
And  drapery,  gold-broider'd  in  Stamboul, 

Closed  the  extremity  in  lieu  of  door : 
This  the  page  lifted,  and  disclosed  to  view 
The  boudoir  of  the  Countess  Pasibleu. 

XXVIII. 

It  was  a  small  pavilion  lined  with  pink, — 

Mirrors  and  silk  all,  save  the  door  and  sky-light, 

The  latter  of  stain'd  glass.     (You  would  not  think 
How  juvenescent  is  a  rosy  high  light !) 

Upon  the  table  were  seen  pen  and  ink, 

(Two  things  I  cannot  say  have  stood  in  my  light,) 

Amid  a  host  of  trinkets,  toys,  and  fans  ; 

The  table  in  the  style  of  Louis  Quinze. 

XXIX. 

A  singular  and  fragile  little  creature 

Upon  the  cushions  indolently  lay, 
With  waning  life  in  each  transparent  feature, 

But  youth  in  her  bright  lips'  ethereal  play  ; 
In  short,  the  kind  of  creature  that  would  meet  your 

Conception  of  a  transmigrating  fay — 
The  dark  eyes,  not  at  all  worn  out  or  weary, 
Kindling  for  transfer  to  some  baby  Peri  ! 


(273) 

XXX. 

The  rest  used  up,  past  mending.     Yet  her  tones 
Were  wildly,  deeply,  exquisitely  clear  ; 

Though  voice  is  not  a  thing  of  flesh  and  bones, 
And  probably  goes  up  when  they  stay  here. 

(I  do  not  know  how  much  of  Smith  and  Jones 
Will  bear  translating  to  "  the  better  sphere," 

But  ladies,  certainly,  when  they  shall  climb  to't, 

Will  get  their  dimples  back — tho'  not  the  rhyme  to't.) 

XXXI. 

Her  person  was  dress'd  very  like  her  soul — 

In  fine  material  most  loosely  worn. 
A  cobweb  cashmere  struggled  to  control 

Ringlets  that  laugh'd  the  filmy  folds  to  scorn, 
And,  from  the  shawls  in  which  she  nestled,  stole 

The  smallest  slipper  ever  soil'd  or  torn. 
You  would  not  guess  her  age  by  looking  at  her, 
Nor,  from  my  sketch,  of  course.     We'll  leave  that  matter. 

XXXII. 

"  My  dear  !"  the  Countess  said,  (by  this  time  she 
Had  ceased  the  Weather,  poor  old  man,  to  hammer — 

He  gets  it,  in  these  morning  calls,  pardie  ! 
And  Lady  Jane  had  hinted  with  a  stammer 

Her  errand — somewhat  delicate,  you  see,) 
"  My  dear,  how  very  odd  !     I  fear  I  am  a 

Poor  judge  of  age — (who  made  that  funny  bonnet  ?) 

Indeed,  I  always  turn'd  my  back  upon  it  ! 


(274) 

XXXIII. 

"  Time  has  no  business  in  one's  house,  my  dear  ! 

I'm  not  at  home  to  any  of  my  creditors. 
They  send  their  nasty  bills  in,  once  a  year, 

And  Time's  are  like  Mortality's — mere  '  dead  letters.3 
Besides,  what  comfort  is  there  living  here, 

If  every  stupid  hour's  to  throw  Death's  head  at  us  ? 
(Lend  me  a  pin,  dear  !)     Time  at  last  will  stop  us  : 
But,  come  to  that — we're  free  by  habeas  corpus. 

xxxiv. 

("  Fie,  what  a  naughty  shawl  !     No  expose", 

I  trust,  love,  eh  ?     Hold  there,  thou  virtuous  pin  !) 

And  so  you  really  have  come  out  to-day 
To  look  you  up  some  suitable  new  sin  !" 

"  Oh,  Countess  !"     "  Did  you  never  write  a  play  ? 
Nor  novel  ?     Well,  you  really  should  begin  ! 

For,  (hark,  my  dear  !)  the  publishers  are  biters, 

Not  at  the  book's  fine  title — but  the  writer's. 

xxxv. 

"  You're  half  an  authoress  ;  for,  as  my  maid  says, 
*  Begun's  half  done,'  and  you've  your  title  writ. 

I  quote  from  Colburn,  and  as  what  *  the  trade'  says 
Is  paid  for,  it  is  well-consider'd  wit. 

Genius,  undoubtedly,  of  many  grades  is, 
But  as  to  us,  we  do  not  need  a  bit. 

'Three  volumes,'  says  the  bargain,  'not  too  thin.' 

You  don't  suppose  I'd  throw  him  genius  in  !" 


(275) 

XXXVI. 

"  But  fame,  dear  Countess  !"    At  the  word  there  flush'd 

A  color  to  her  cheek  like  fever's  glow, 
And  in  her  hand  unconsciously  she  crush'd 

The  fringes  of  her  shawl,  and  bending  low 
To  hide  the  tears  that  suddenly  had  gush'd 

Into  her  large,  dark  eyes,  she  murmur'd  "  No  ! 
Th'  inglorious  agony  of  conquering  pain 
Has  drunk  that  dream  up.     I  have  lived  in  vain  ! 

XXXVII. 

"  Yet  have  I  set  my  soul  upon  the  string, 

Tense  with  the  energy  of  high  desire, 
And  trembled  with  the  arrow's  quivering  spring, 

To  launch  upon  ambition's  flight  of  fire  ! 
And  never  lark  so  hush'd  his  heart  to  sing, 

Or,  as  he  sang,  nerved  wing  to  bear  it  higher, 
As  I  have  striven  my  wild  heart  to  tame 
And  melt  its  love,  pride,  passion — into  fame  ! 

XXXVIII. 

"Oh,  poor  the  flattery  to  call  it  mine 

For  trifles  which  beguiled  an  hour  of  pain, 

Or,  on  the  echoing  heels  of  mirth  and  wine, 

Crept  through  the  chambers  of  a  throbbing  brain. 

Worthily,  have  I  never  written  line  ! 
And  when  they  talk  to  me  of  fame  I  gain, 

In  very  bitterness  of  soul  I  mock  it. — 

And  put  the  nett  proceeds  into  my  pocket  ! 


(276) 

XXXIX. 

"  And  so,  my  dear, — let  not  the  market  vary, — 
I  bid  the  critics,  pro  and  cow,  defiance  ; 

And  then  I'm  fond  of  being  literary, 

And  have  a  tenderness  for  '  sucking  lions.7 

My  friend  the  Dutchess  has  a  fancy  dairy  : — 
Cheeses  or  poets,  curds  or  men  of  science — 

It  comes  to  the  same  thing.     But,  truce  to  mocking- 

Suppose  you  try  my  color  in  a  stocking  !" 

XL. 

I  need  not  state  the  ratiocination 

By  which  the  Lady  Jane  had  so  decided — 
Not  quite  upon  the  regular  vocation — 

Of  course  you  knew  she  was  too  rich  (or  I  did) 
To  care  with  Costard  for  "  remuneration  ;" 

But  feeling  that  her  life  like  Lethe  glided, 
She  thought  'twould  be  advisable  to  bag  her  a 
Few  brace  of  rapids  from  her  friend's  Niagara. 

XLI. 

"  Well,  Countess  !  what  shall  be  my  premier  pas  ? 

Must  I  propitiate  the  penny-a-liners  ? 
Or  would  a  *  sucking  lion'  stoop  so  far 

As  to  be  fed  and  petted  by  a  dry  nurse  ? 
I  cannot  shine — but  I  can  see  a  star — 

Are  there  not  worshippers  as  well  as  shiners  ? 
I  will  be  ruled  implicitly  by  you  : — 
My  stocking's  innocent — how  dye  it  blue  ?" 


(277) 

XLII. 

The  Countess  number'd  on  her  fingers,  musing : — 
"  I've  several  that  I  might  make  you  over, 

And  not  be  inconsolable  at  losing  ; 

But,  really,  as  you've  neither  spouse  nor  lover, 

'Most  any  of  my  pets  would  be  amusing, 
Particularly  if  you're  not  above  a 

Discreet  flirtation.     Are  you  ?     How's  the  Earl  ? 

Does  he  still  treat  you  like  a  little  girl  ? 

XLIII. 

"  How  do  you  see  your  visitors  ?     Alone  ? 

Does  the  Earl  sleep  at  table  after  dinner  ? 
Have  you  had  many  lovers  ?     Dear  me  !     None  ? 

Was  not  your  father  something  of  a  sinner  ? 
Who  is  the  nicest  man  you've  ever  known  ? 

Pray,  does  the  butler  bring  your  letters  in,  or 
First  take  them  to  the  Earl  ?     Is  he  not  rather 
A  surly  dog  ? — the  butler,  not  your  father." 

XLIV. 

To  these  inquiries  the  Lady  Jane 

Replied  with  nods,  or  something  as  laconic, 

For  on  the  Countess  rattled,  might  and  main, 
With  a  rapidity  Napoleonic  ; 

Then  mused  and  said,  "  'Twill  never  do,  it's  plain — 
The  poet  must  be  warranted  Platonic  ! 

But,  query — how  to  find  you  such  an  oddity  ? 

My  dear,  they  all  make  love  ! — it's  their  commodity  ! 


(278) 

XLV. 

"  The  poet's  on  the  look-out  for  a  scene — 

The  painter  for  a  '  novel  situation  ;' 
And  either  does  much  business  between 

The  little  pauses  of  a  declaration — 
Noting  the  way  in  which  you  sob  or  lean, 

Or  use  your  handkerchief  in  agitation. 
I've  known  one — making  love  like  Roderick  Random — 
Get  off  his  knees  and  make  a  memorandum  ! 

XL  VI. 

"  You  see  they're  always  ready  for  their  trade, 
And  have  a  speech  as  pat  as  a  town-crier  ; 

And  so,  my  dear,  I'm  naturally  afraid 
To  trust  you  with  these  gentlemen-on-fire. 

I  knew  a  most  respectable  old  maid 

A  dramatist  made  love  to— just  to  try  her  ! 

She  hung  herself,  of  course — but  in  that  way 

He  got  some  pretty  touches  for  his  play. 

XL  VII. 

"  How  shall  we  manage  it  ?     I  say,  with  tears, 
I've  only  two  that  are  not  rogues  at  bottom  j 

And  one  of  these  would  soon  be  '  over  ears' 
In  love  with  you, — but  that  he  hasn't  got  'em  ! 

They  were  cut  off  by  the  New  Zealanders — 
(As  he  invariably  adds)  '  'od-rot-'em  !' 

(Meaning  the  savages.)     He's  quite  a  poet, 

(He  wears  his  hair  so  that  you  wouldn't  know  it,) 


(279) 

XLVIII. 

"  In  his  ideas,  I  mean.     (I  really  am  at  a 

Stand-still  about  you.)     Well — this  man,  one  day, 

Took  in  his  head  to  own  the  earth's  diameter, 
From  zenith  through  to  nadir  /     (They  do  say 

He  kill'd  his  wife—or  threw  a  ham  at  her — 
Or  something — so  he  had  to  go  away — 

That's  neither  here  nor  there.)     His  name  is  Wieland, 

And  under  him  exactly  lies  New  Zealand. 

XLIX. 

"  I'm  not  certain  if  his  l  seat'  's,  or  no, 

In  the  Low  Countries.     But  the  sky  above  it 

Of  course  is  his  ;  and  for  some  way  below 
He  has  a  right  to  dig  and  to  improve  it  ; 

But  under  him,  a  million  miles  or  so, 

Lies  land  that's  not  his, — and  the  law  can't  move  it. 

It  cut  poor  Wieland's  nadir  off,  no  doubt — 

And  so  he  sail'd  to  buy  the  owner  out. 

'  * 

L. 

"  I  never  quite  made  out  the  calculation — 
But  plump  against  his  cellar  floor,  bin  2, 

He  found  a  tribe  had  built  their  habitation, 
Whose  food  was  foreigners  and  kangaroo. 

They  would  sell  out — but,  to  his  consternation, 
They  charged  him — all  the  fattest  of  his  crew  ! 

At  last  they  caught  and  roasted  every  one — 

But  he  escaped  by  being  under-done  !" 


(  280  ) 

LI. 

That  such  a  lion  was  well  worth  his  feed, 
Confess'd  with  merry  tears  the  Lady  Jane  ; 

But,  that  he  answer'd  to  her  present  need, 
(A  literary  pet,)  was  not  so  plain. 

She  thought  she'd  give  the  matter  up,  indeed, 
Or  turn  it  over  and  so  call  again. 

However,  as  her  friend  had  mention'd  two, 

Perhaps  the  other  might  be  made  to  do. 

LII. 

"  I'm  looking,"  said  the  Countess,  "  for  a  letter 
From  my  old  playmate,  Isabella  Gray. 

'Tis  Heaven  knows  how  long  since  I  have  met  her  ; 
She  ran  away  and  married  one  fine  day — 

Poor  girl  !     She  might  have  done  a  great  deal  better  ! 
The  boy  that  she  has  sent  to  me,  they  say, 

Is  handsome,  and  has  talents  very  striking : 

So  young,  too — you  can  spoil  him  to  your  liking. 

% 

LIII. 

"  Her  letter  will  amuse  you.     You  must  know 

That,  from  her  marriage-day,  her  lord  has  shut  her 

Securely  up  in  an  old  French  chateau  ; 

Where,  with  her  children  and  no  woman  but  her, 

He  plays  the  old  school  gentleman  ;  and  so 

Her  worldly  knowledge  stopp'd  at  bread  and  butter. 

She  thinks  I  may  be  changed  by  time — for,  may  be, 

I've  lost  a  tooth  or  got  another  baby. 


(281) 

LIV. 

"  Heigh-ho  !— 'tis  evident  we're  made  of  clay, 
And  harden  unless  kept  in  tears  and  shade  j 

This  fashionable  sunshine  dries  away 
Much  that  we  err  in  losing,  I'm  afraid  ! 

I  wonder  what  my  guardian  angels  say 
About  the  sort  of  woman  I  have  made  ! 

I  wish  I  could  begin  my  life  again  ! 

What  think  you  of  Pythagoras,  Lady  Jane  ?" 

LV. 

The  Countess,  all  this  while,  was  running  over 
The  pages  of  a  letter,  closely  cross'd  : — 

"  I  wish,"  she  said,  "  my  most  devoted  lover 
Took  half  the  trouble  that  this  scrawl  has  cost  ! 

Though  some  of  it  is  quite  a  flight  above  a 

Sane  woman's  comprehension.     Tut  !     Where  was't ! 

There  is  a  passage  here — the  name's  Beaulevres — 

His  chateau's  in  the  neighborhood  of  Sevres. 

LVI. 

«  The  boy's  call'd  Jules.     Ah,  here  it  is  !     My  child 
Brings  you  this  letter.     Pve  not  much  to  say 

More  than  you  know  of  him,)  if  he  has  smiled 
When  you  have  seen  him.     In  his  features  play 

The  light  from  which  his  soul  has  been  beguiled — 
The  blessed  Heaven  I  lose  with  him  to-day. 

I  ask  you  not  to  love  him — he  is  there  f 

And  you  have  loved  him — without  wish  or  prayer  f 


(  282  ) 

LVII. 

His  father  sends  him  forth  for  fame  and  gold — 
An  angel  on  this  errand  !     I  have  striven 

Against  it — out  he  is  not  mine  to  hold. 

They  say  'tis  wrong  to  ivish  to  stay  him,  even, 

And  that  my  pride's  poor — my  ambition  cold  ! 
Alas  !  to  get  him  only  lack  to  Heaven 

Is  my  one  passionate  prayer  !     Think  me  not  wild — 

'  Tis  that  I  have  an  angel  for  my  child  / 

LVIII. 

They  say  that  he  has  genius.     I  but  see 
That  he  gets  wisdom  as  the  flower  gets  hue, 

While  others  hive  it  like  the  toiling  bee  ; 

That,  with  him,  all  things  beautiful  keep  new, 

And  every  morn  the  first  morn  seems  to  be — 
So  freshly  look  abroad  his  eyes  of  blue  ! 

What  he  has  written  seems  to  me  no  more 

Than  I  have  thought  a  thousand  times  before  / 

LIX. 

Yet  not  upon  his  gay  career  to  Fame 
Broods  my  foreboding  tear.     I  wish  it  won — 

My  prayer  speeds  on  his  spirit  to  its  aim — 
But  in  his  chamber  wait  I  for  my  son  f — 

When  darken'd  is  ambition's  star  of  fame — 
When  the  night's  fever  of  unrest  is  on — 

With  the  unbidden  sadness,  the  sharp  care, 

I  fly  from  his  bright  hours,  to  meet  him  there  ! 


(  283  ) 

LX. 

Forgive  me  if  I  prate  !    Is't  much — is't  wild — 
To  hope — to  pray — that  you  mil  sometimes  creep 

To  the  dream-haunted  pillow  of  my  child, 
Keeping  sweet  watch  above  his  fitful  sleep  ? 

Blest  like  his  mother,  if  in  dream  he  smiled, 
Or,  if  he  wept,  still  blest  with  him  to  weep  ; 

Rewarded — oh,  for  how  much  more  than  this  ! — 

By  his  awaking  smile — his  morning  kiss  ! 

LXI. 

/  know  not  how  to  stop  f     He  leaves  me  well ; 

Life,  spirit,  health,  in  all  his  features  speak  ; 
His  foot  bounds  with  the  spring  of  a  gazelle  ; 

But  watch  him — stay  !  well  thought  on  ! — there's  a  streak 
Which  the  first  faltering  of  his  tongue  will  tell, 

Long  ere  the  bright  blood  wavers  on  his  cheek — 
A  little  bursted  vein,  that,  near  his  heart, 
Looks  like  a  crimson  thread  half  torn  apart. 

LXII. 

So,  trusting  not  his  cheek  by  morning  light, 
Wlien  hope  sits  mantling  on  it,  seek  his  bed 

In  the  more  tranquil  watches  of  the  night, 

And  ask  this  tell-tale  how  his  heart  has  sped. 

If  well — its  branching  tracery  shows  bright  ; 
But  if  its  sanguine  hue  look  cold  and  dead, 

Ah,  Gertrude  f  let  your  ministering  be 

As  you  would  answer  it,  in  heaven,  to  me  /" 


(284) 

LXIII. 

Enter  the  page  : — "  Miladi's  maid  is  waiting  !" — 
A  hint,  (that  it  was  time  to  dress  for  dinner,) 

Which  puts  a  stop  in  London  to  all  prating. 
As  far  as  goes  the  letter  you're  a  winner, 

The  rest  of  it  to  flannel  shirts  relating — 

When  Jules  should  wear  his  thicker,  when  his  thinner. 

The  Countess  laugh'd  at  Lady  Jane's  adieu  : 

She  thought  the  letter  touching.     Pray,  don't  you  ? 

LXIV. 

I  have  observed  that  Heaven,  in  answering  prayer, 
(This  is  not  meant  to  be  a  pious  stanza — 

Only  a  fact  that  has  a  pious  air.) 

(We're  very  sure,  I  think,  to  have  an  answer ;) 

But  I've  observed,  I  would  remark,  that  where 
Our  plans  are  ill-contrived,  as  oft  our  plans  are, 

Kind  Providence  goes  quite  another  way 

To  bring  about  the  end  for  which  we  pray. 

LXV. 

In  this  connection  I  would  also  add, 

That  a  discreet  young  angel,  (bona  fide,) 

Accompanied  our  amiable  lad  ; 

And  that  he  walk'd  not  out,  nor  stepp'd  aside  he, 

Nor  met  with  an  adventure,  good  or  bad, 
(Although  he  enter'd  London  on  a  Friday,) 

Nor  ate,  nor  drank,  nor  closed  his  eye  a  minute, 

Without  this  angel's  guiding  finger  in  it. 


(285) 

LXVI. 

His  mother,  as  her  letter  seems  to  show, 
Expected  him,  without  delay  or  bother, — 

Portmanteau,  carpet-bag,  and  all — to  go 

Straight  to  her  old  friend's  house — (forsooth !  what  other!) 

The  angel,  who  would  seem  the  world  to  know, 
Advised  the  boy  to  drive  to  Mivart's  rather 

He  did.     The  angel,  (as  I  trust  is  plaifl^ 

Lodged  in  the  vacant  heart  of  Lady  Jane. 

LXVII. 

A  month  in  town  these  gentlemen  had  been 
At  date  of  the  commencement  of  my  story. 

The  angel's  occupations  you  have  seen, 

If  you  have  read  what  I  have  laid  before  ye. 

Jules  had  seen  Dan  O'Connell  and  the  Queen, 
And  girded  up  his  loins  for  fame  and  glory, 

And  changed  his  old  integuments  for  better  ; 

And  then  he  call'd  and  left  his  mother's  letter. 

LXVIII. 

That  female  hearts  grow  never  old  in  towns — 
That  taste  grows  rather  young  with  dissipation — 

That  dowagers  dress  not  in  high-neck'd  gowns — 
Nor  are,  at  fifty,  proof  against  flirtation — 

That  hospitality  is  left  to  clowns, 

Or  elbow'd  from  the  world  by  ostentation — 

That  a  "  tried  friend"  should  not  be  tried  again — 

That  boys  at  seventeen  are  partly  men — 


(  286) 

LXIX. 

Are  truths,  as  pat  as  paving-stones,  in  cities. 

The  contrary  is  true  of  country  air  ; 
(Where  the  mind  rusts,  which  is  a  thousand  pities, 

While  still  the  cheek  keeps  fresh  and  debonnair.) 
But  what  I'm  trying  in  this  verse  to  hit  is, 

That  Heaven,  in  answering  Jules's  mother's  prayer, 
Began  by  tlH^arting  all  her  plans  and  suavities  ; 
As  needs  must — vide  the  just-named  depravities.        * 

LXX. 

Some  stanzas  back,  we  left  the  ladies  going, 
At  six,  to  dress  for  dinner.     Time  to  dine 

I  always  give  in  poetry,  well  knowing 
That,  to  jump  over  it  in  half  a  line, 

Looks,  (let  us  be  sincere,  dear  muse  !)  like  showing 
Contempt  we  do  not  feel,  for  meat  and  wine. 

Dinner  !     Ye  Gods  !     What  is  there  more  respectable  ! 

For  eating,  who,  save  Byron,  ever  check'd  a  belle  ! 

LXXI. 

'Tis  ten — say  half-past.     Lady  Jane  has  dined, 

And  dress'd  as  simply  as  a  lady  may. 
A  card  lies  on  her  table  "  To  Remind" — 

'Tis  odd  she  never  thought  of  it  to-day. 
But  she  is  pleasantly  surprised  to  find 

'Tis  Friday  night,  the  Countess's  soiree. 
Back  rolls  the  chariot  to  Berkely  Square. 
If  you  have  dined,  dear  reader,  let's  go  there  ! 


(287) 

LXXII. 

We're  early.     In  the  cloak-room  smokes  the  urn, 
The  house-keeper  behind  it,  fat  and  solemn  ; 

Steady  as  stars  the  fresh-lit  candles  burn, 

And  on  the  stairs  the  new-blown  what  d'ye-call  'em 

Their  nodding  cups  of  perfume  overturn  ; 
The  page  leans  idly  by  a  marble  column, 

And  stiffly  a  tall  footman  stands  above, 

Looking  between  the  fingers  of  his  glove. 

LXXIII. 

All  bright  and  silent,  like  a  charmed  palace — 
The  spells  wound  up,  the  fays  to  come  at  twelve  ; 

The  house-keeper  a  witch,  (cum  grano  salis  ;) 
The  handsome  page,  perhaps,  a  royal  elve 

Condemn'd  to  servitude  by  fairy  malice  ; 

(I  wish  the  varlet  had  these  rhymes  to  delve  !) 

Some  magic  hall,  it  seems,  for  revel  bright, 

And  Lady  Jane  the  spirit  first  alight. 

LXXIV. 

Alas  !  here  vanishes  the  foot  of  Pleasure  ! 

She — like  an  early  guest — goes  in  before, 
And  comes,  when  all  are  gone,  for  Memory's  treasure ; 

But  is  not  found  upon  the  crowded  floor  ; 
(Unless,  indeed,  some  charming  woman  says  you're 

A  love,  which  makes  close  quarters  less  a  bore.) 
I've  seen  her,  down  Anticipation's  vista, 
As  large  as  life — and  walk'd  straight  on,  and  miss'd  her  ! 


(  288  ) 

LXXV. 

With  a  declining  taste  for  making  friends, 
One's  taste  for  the  fatigue  of  pleasure's  past  ; 

And  then,  one  sometimes  wonders  which  transcends — 
The  first  hour  of  a  gay  night,  or  the  last. 

(Beginners  "  burn  the  candle  at  both  ends," 
And  find  the  middle  brightest — that  is  fast  !) 

But  a  good  rule  at  parties,  (to  keep  up  a 

Mercurial  air,)  is  to  come  in  at  supper. 

LXXVI. 

I  mean  that  you  should  go  to  bed  at  nine 

And  sleep  till  twelve — take  coffee  or  green  tea, 

Dress  and  go  out — (this  was  a  way  of  mine 
When  looking  up  the  world  in  '33) — 

Sup  at  the  ball — (it's  not  a  place  for  wine) — 
Sleep,  or  not,  after,  as  the  case  may  be. 

You've  the  advantage,  thus,  when  all  are  yawning, 

Of  growing  rather  fresher  toward  morning. 

LXXVII. 

But,  after  thirty,  here's  your  best  "  Elixir  :" 

Breakfast  betimes.     Do  something  worth  your  while 

By  twelve  or  one — (this  makes  the  blood  run  quick,  sir  !) 
Dine  with  some  man  or  woman  who  will  smile. 

Have  little  cause  to  care  how  politics  are, 
"  Let  not  the  sun  go  down  upon  your"  bile  ; 

And,  if  well-married,  rich,  and  not  too  clever, 

I  don't  see  why  you  shouldn't  live  forever. 


(289) 

LXXVIII. 

Short-lived  is  your  "sad  dog" — and  yet,  we  hear, 
"  Whom  the  gods  love  die  young."    Of  course  the  ladies 

Are  safe  in  loving  what  the  gods  hold  dear  ; 
And  the  result,  I'm  very  much  afraid,  is, 

That  if  he  "  has  his  day,"  it's  "  neither  here 
Nor  there  !"     But  it  is  time  our  hero  made  his 

Appearance  on  the  carpet,  Lady  Jane — 

(I'll  mend  this  vile  pen,  and  begin  again.) 

LXXIX. 

The  Lady  Jane  walk'd  thro'  the  bright  rooms,  breaking 
The  glittering  silence  with  her  flowing  dress, 

Whose  pure  folds  seem'd  a  coy  resistance  making 
To  the  fond  air ;  while,  to  her  loveliness 

The  quick-eyed  mirrors  breathlessly  awaking, 
Acknowledged  not  one  radiant  line  the  less 

That  not  on  them  she  look'd  before  she  faded  ! 

Neglected  gentlemen  don't  do  as  they  did  : — 

LXXX. 

No  ! — for,  'twixt  our  quicksilver  and  a  woman, 
Nature  has  put  no  glass,  for  non-conductor, 

And,  while  she's  imaged  in  their  bosoms,  few  men 
Can  make  a  calm,  cold  mirror  their  instructor  ; 

For,  when  beloved,  we  deify  what's  human — 

When  piqued,  we  mock  like  devils !    But  I've  pluck'd  a 

Digression  here.     It's  no  use,  my  contending — 

Fancy  will  ramble  while  the  pen  is  mending  ! 


(290) 

LXXXI. 

A  small  room  on  the  left,  (I'll  get  on  faster 

If  you're  impatient,)  very  softly  lit 
By  lamps  conceal'd  in  bells  of  alabaster, 

Lipp'd  like  a  lily,  and  "  as  white  as  it," 
With  a  sweet  statue  by  a  famous  master, 

Just  in  the  centre,  (but  not  dress'd  a  bit  !) 
This  dim  room  drew  aside  our  early-comer, 
Who  thought  it  like  a  moonlight  night  in  summer. 

LXXXII. 

And  so  it  was.     For,  through  an  opening  door, 
Came  the  soft  breath  of  a  conservatory, 

And,  bending  its  tall  stem  the  threshold  o'er, 
Swung  in  a  crimson  flower,  the  tropics'  glory  ; 

And,  as  you  gazed,  the  vista  lengthened  more, 

And  statues,  lamps,  and  flowers — but,  to  my  story  ! 

The  room  was  cushion'd  like  a  Bey's  divan  ; 

And  in  it — (Heaven  preserve  us  !) — sat  a  man  ! 

LXXXIII. 

At  least,  as  far  as  boots  and  pantaloons 

Are  symptoms  of  a  man,  there  seem'd  one  there — 

Whatever  was  the  number  of  his  Junes. 
She  look'd  again,  and  started  !     In  a  chair, 

Sleeping  as  if  his  eyelids  had  been  moons, 
Reclined,  with  flakes  of  sunshine  in  his  hair, 

(Or,  what  look'd  like  it,)  a  fair  youth,  quite  real, 

But  of  a  beauty  like  the  Greek  ideal. 


(291) 

LXXXIV. 

He  slept,  like  Love  by  slumber  overtaken, 
His  bow  unbent,  his  quiver  thrown  aside  ; 

The  lip  might  to  a  manlier  arch  awaken — 
The  nostril,  so  serene,  dilate  with  pride  : 

But  now  he  lay,  of  all  his  masks  forsaken, 

And  childhood's  sleep  was  there,  and  naught  beside  ; 

And  his  bright  lips  lay  smilingly  apart, 

Like  a  torn  crimson  leaf  with  pearly  heart. 

LXXXV. 

Now  Jules  Beaulevres,  Esq. — (this  was  he) — 
Had  never  been  "  put  up"  to  London  hours  ; 

And  thinking  he  was  simply  ask'd  to  tea, 

Had  been,  since  seven,  looking  at  the  flowers — 

No  doubt  extremely  pleasant, — but,  you  see, 
A  great  deal  of  it  rather  overpowers  ; 

And  possibly,  that  very  fine  exotic 

He  sat  just  under,  was  a  slight  narcotic. 

LXXXVI. 

At  any  rate,  when  it  was  all  admired, — 

As  quite  his  notion  of  a  heaven  polite, 
(Minus  the  angels.) — he  felt  very  tired — 

As  one,  who'd  been  all  day  sight-seeing,  might  ! 
And  having  by  the  Countess  been  desired 

To  make  himself  at  home,  he  did  so,  quite. 
He  begg'd  his  early  coming  might  not  fetter  her, 
And  she  went  out  to  dine,  the  old — etcetera. 


(292) 

LXXXVII. 

And  thinking  of  his  mother — and  his  bill 
At  Mivart's — and  of  all  the  sights  amazing 

Of  which,  the  last  few  days,  he'd  had  his  fill— 
And  choking  when  he  thought  of  fame — and  gazing 

Upon  his  varnish'd  boots,  (as  young  men  will,) 

And  wond'ring  how  the  shops  could  pay  for  glazing — 

And  also,  (here  his  thoughts  were  getting  dim,) 

Whether  a  certain  smile  was  meant  for  him — 

LXXXVIII. 

And  murm'ring  over,  with  a  drowsy  bow, 

The  speech  he  made  the  Countess,  when  he  met  her, 
And  smiling,  with  closed  eyelids,  (thinking  how 

He  should  describe  her  in  the  morrow's  letter) — 
And  sighing  "  Good-night  !"  (he  was  dreaming  now) — 

Jules  dropp'd  into  a  world  he  liked  much  better  ; 
But  left  his  earthly  mansion  unprotected  : 
Well,  sir !  'twas  robb'd — as  might  have  been  expected  ! 

LXXXIX. 

The  Lady  Jane  gazed  on  the  fair  boy  sleeping, 
And  in  his  lips'  rare  beauty  read  his  name  ; 

And  to  his  side  with  breathless  wonder  creeping, 
Resistless  to  her  heart  the  feeling  came, 

That,  to  her  yearning  love's  devoted  keeping, 
Was  given  the  gem  within  that  fragile  frame. 

And  bending,  with  almost  a  mother's  bliss, 

To  his  bright  lips,  she  seal'd  it  with  a  kiss  ! 


(  293  ) 

xc. 

Oh,  in  that  kiss  how  much  of  heaven  united  ! 

What  haste  to  pity — eagerness  to  bless  ! 
What  thirsting  of  a  heart,  long  pent  and  slighted, 

For  something  fair,  yet  human,  to  caress  ! 
How  fathomless  the  love  so  briefly  plighted  ! 

What  kiss  thrill 'd  ever  more — sinn'd  ever  less  ! 
So  love  the  angels,  sent  with  holy  mercies  ! 
And  so  love  poets — in  their  early  verses  ! 

xci. 

If,  in  well-bred  society,  ("  hear  !  hear  !") 

If,  in  this  "  wrong  and  pleasant"  world  of  ours 

There  beats  a  pulse  that  seraphs  may  revere — 
If  Eden's  birds,  when  frighted  from  its  flowers, 

Clung  to  one  deathless  seed,  still  blooming  here — 
If  Time  cut  ever  down,  'mid  blighted  hours, 

A  bliss  that  will  spring  up  in  bliss  again — 

'Tis  woman's  love.     This  I  believe.     Amen  ! 

xcn. 

To  guard  from  ill,  to  help,  watch  over,  warn — 
To  learn,  for  his  sake,  sadness,  patience,  pain — 

To  seek  him  with  most  love  when  most  forlorn — 
Promised  the  mute  kiss  of  the  Lady  Jane. 

And  thus,  in  sinless  purity  is  born, 

Alway,  the  love  of  woman.     So,  again, 

I  say,  that  up  to  kissing — later  even — 

A  woman's  love  may  have  its  feet  in  heaven. 


(294) 

XCIII. 

Jules  open'd  (at  the  kiss)  his  large  blue  eyes, 
And  calmly  gazed  upon  the  face  above  him, 

But  never  stirr'd,  and  utter'd  no  surprise — 
Although  his  situation  well  might  move  him. 

He  seem'd  so  cool,  (my  lyre  shall  tell  no  lies,) 

That  Lady  Jane  half  thought  she  shouldn't  love  him ; 

When  suddenly  the  Countess  Pasibleu 

Enter 'd  the  room  with  "  Dear  me  !  how  d'ye  do  ?" 

xcrv. 

Up  sprang  the  boy — amazement  on  his  brow  ! 

But  the  next  instant,  through  his  lips  there  crept 
A  just  awakening  smile,  and,  with  a  bow, 

Calmly  he  said  :  "  'Twas  only  while  I  slept 
The  angels  did  not  vanish — until  now." 

A  speech,  I  think,  quite  worthy  an  adept. 
The  Countess  stared,  and  Lady  Jane  began 
To  fear  that  she  had  kiss'd  a  nice  young  man. 

xcv. 

Jules  had  that  precious  quality  call'd  tact  ; 

And  having  made  a  very  warm  beginning, 
He  suddenly  grew  grave,  and  rather  back'd  ; 

As  if  incapable  of  further  sinning. 
'Twas  well  he  did  so,  for,  it  is  a  fact, 

The  ladies  like,  themselves,  to  do  the  winning. 
In  female  Shakspeares,  Desdemonas  shine  ; 
And  the  Othellos  "  seriously  incline." 


(295) 

XCVI. 

So,  with  a  manner  quite  reserved  and  plain, 
Jules  ask'd  to  be  presented,  and  then  made 

Many  apologies  to  Lady  Jane 

For  the  eccentric  part  that  he  had  play'd. 

Regretted  he  had  slept — confess'd  with  pain 
He  took  her  for  an  angel — was  afraid 

He  had  been  rude — abrupt — did  he  alarm 

Her  much  ? — and  might  he  offer  her  his  arm  ? 

xcvu. 

And  as  they  ranged  that  sweet  conservatory, 
He  heeded  not  the  flowers  he  walk'd  among  : 

But  such  an  air  of  earnest  listening  wore  he, 
That  a  dumb  statue  must  have  found  a  tongue  ; 

And  like  a  child  that  hears  a  fairy  story, 
His  parted  lips  upon  her  utterance  hung. 

He  seem'd  to  know  by  instinct,  (else  how  was  it  ?) 

That  people  love  the  bank  where  they  deposit. 

XCVIII. 

And  closer,  as  the  moments  faster  wore, 

The  slender  arm  within  her  own  she  press'd  ; 

And  yielding  to  the  magic  spell  he  bore — 
The  earnest  truth  upon  his  lips  impress'd — 

She  lavishly  told  out  the  golden  ore 

Hoarded  a  life-time  in  her  guarded  breast. 

And  Jules,  throughout,  was  beautifully  tender — 

Although  he  did  not  always  comprehend  her. 


(  296  ) 

XCIX. 

And  this  in  him  was  no  deep  calculation, 

But  in  good  truth,  as  well  as  graceful  seeming, 

Abandonment  complete  to  admiration — 

His  soul  gone  from  him  as  it  goes  in  dreaming. 

I  wish'd  to  make  this  little  explanation, 

Misgiving  that  his  tact  might  go  for  scheming  ; 

I  can  assure  you  it  was  never  plann'd  ; 

I  have  it  from  his  angel,  (second  hand.) 

c. 

And  from  the  same  authentic  source  I  know, 
That  Lady  Jane  still  thought  him  but  a  lad  ; 

Though  why  the  deuse  she  didn't  treat  him  so, 
Is  quite  enough  to  drive  conjecture  mad  ! 

Perhaps  she  thought  that  it  would  make  him  grow 
To  take  more  beard  for  granted  that  he  had. 

A  funny  friend  to  lend  a  nice  young  man  to  ! 

I'm  glad  I've  got  him  safely  through  one  Canto. 


(297) 


CANTO  II. 


THE  Countess  Pasibleu's  gay  rooms  were  full, 
Not  crowded.     It  was  neither  rout  nor  ball — 

Only  "  her  Friday  night."     The  air  was  cool  ; 
And  there  were  people  in  the  house  of  all 

Varieties,  except  the  pure  John  Bull. 

The  number  of  young  ladies,  too,  was  small — 

You  seldom  find  old  John,  or  his  young  daughters, 

Swimming  in  very  literary  waters. 


Indeed,  with  rare  exceptions,  women  given 

To  the  society  of  famous  men, 
Are  those  who  will  confess  to  twenty-seven  ; 

But  add  to  this  the  next  reluctant  ten, 
And  still  they're  fit  to  make  a  poet's  heaven, 

For  sumptuously  beautiful  is  then 
The  woman  of  proud  mien  and  thoughtful  brow  ; 
And  one  (still  bright  in  her  meridian  now) 


(  298  ) 

m. 

Bent  upon  Jules,  that  night,  her  lustrous  eye. 

A  creature  of  a  loftier  mould  was  she 
Than  in  his  dreams  had  ever  glided  by  ; 

And  through  his  veins  the  blood  flew  startlingly, 
And  he  felt  sick  at  heart — he  knew  not  why — 

For  'tis  the  sadness  of  the  lost  to  see 
Angels  look  on  us  with  a  cold  regard, 
(Not  knowing  those  who  never  left  their  card.) 

IV. 

She  had  a  low,  sweet  brow,  with  fringed  lakes 
Of  an  unfathom'd  darkness  couch'd  below  ; 

And  parted  on  that  brow  in  jetty  flakes 

The  raven  hair  swept  back  with  wavy  flow, 

Rounding  a  head  of  such  a  shape  as  makes 
The  old  Greek  marble  with  the  goddess  glow. 

Her  nostril's  breaching  arch  might  threaten  storm — 

But  love  lay  in  her  lips,  all  hush'd  and  warm. 

v. 

And  small  teeth,  glittering  white,  and  cheek  whose  red 
Seem'd  Passion,  there  asleep,  in  rosy  nest : 

And  neck  set  on  as  if  to  bear  a  head — 
May  be  a  lily,  may  be  Juno's  crest, — 

So  lightly  sprang  it  from  its  snow-white  bed  f 
So  proudly  rode  above  the  swelling  breast  ! 

And  motion,  effortless  as  stars  awaking 

And  melting  out,  at  eve,  and  morning's  breaking  ; 


(  299  ) 


VI. 

And  voice  delicious  quite,  and  smile  that  came 

Slow  to  the  lips,  as  'twere  the  heart  smiled  thro'  :- 

These  charms  I've  been  particular  to  name, 
For  they  are,  like  an  inventory,  true, 

And  of  themselves  were  stuff  enough  for  fame  ; 
But  she,  so  wondrous  fair,  has  genius  too, 

And  brilliantly  her  thread  of  life  is  spun — 

In  verse  and  beauty  both,  the  "  Undying  One  !" 

VII. 

And  song — for  in  those  kindling  lips  there  lay 
Music  to  wing  all  utterance  outward  breaking, 

As  if  upon  the  ivory  teeth  did  play 

Angels,  who  caught  the  words  at  their  awaking, 

And  sped  them  with  sweet  melodies  away — 

The  hearts  of  those  who  listen'd  with  them  taking. 

Of  proof  to  this  last  fact  there's  little  lack ; 

And  Jules,  poor  lad !  ne'er  got  his  truant  back  ! 

VIII. 

That  heart  stays  with  her  still.     'Tis  one  of  two, 
(I  should  premise) — all  poets  being  double, 

Living  in  two  worlds  as  of  course  they  do, 
Fancy  and  fact,  and  rarely  taking  trouble 

T'  explain  in  which  they're  living,  as  to  you  / 
And  this  it  is  makes  all  the  hubble-bubble, 

For  who  can  fairly  write  a  bard's  biography, 

When,  of  his  fancy- world,  there's  no  geography  ! 


(  300) 

IX. 

Jules  was  at  perfect  liberty  in  fact 

To  love  again,  and  still  be  true  in  fancy  ; 

Else  were  this  story  at  its  closing  act, 

Nay,  he  in  fact  might  wed,  and  in  romance  he 

Might  find  the  qualities  his  sposa  lack'd — 

(A  truth  that  I  could  easier  make  a  man  see,) 

And  woman's  great  mistake,  if  I  may  tell  it,  is 

The  calling  such  stray  fancies  "  infidelities." 

x. 

Byron  was  man  and  bard,  and  Lady  B., 

In  wishing  to  monopolize  him  wholly, 
Committed  bigamy,  you  plainly  see. 

She,  being  very  single,  Guiccioli 
Took  off  the  odd  one  of  the  wedded  three — 

A  change,  'twould  seem,  quite  natural  and  holy. 
The  after  sin,  which  still  his  fame  environs, 
Was  giving  Guiccioli  both  the  Byrons. 

XI. 

The  stern  wife  drove  him  from  her.     Had  she  loved 
With  all  the  woman's  tenderness  the  while, 

He  had  not  been  the  wanderer  he  proved. 
Like  bird  to  sunshine  fled  he  to  a  smile  ; 

And,  lightly  though  the  changeful  fancy  roved, 

The  heart  speeds  home  with  far  more  light  a  wile. 

The  world  well  tried — the  sweetest  thing  in  life 

Is  the  unclouded  welcome  of  a  wife. 


(  301  ) 

XII. 

To  poets  more  than  all — for  truthful  love 

Has,  to  their  finer  sense,  a  deeper  sweetness ; 

Yet  she  who  has  the  venturous  wish  to  prove 
The  poet's  love  when  nearest  to  completeness, 

Must  wed  the  man  and  let  the  fancy  rove — 
Loose  to  the  air  that  wing  of  eager  fleetness, 

And  smile  it  home  when  wearied  out — with  air, 

But  if  you  scold  him,  Madam  !  have  a  care  ! 

XIII. 

All  this  time  the  "  Undying  One"  was  singing. 

She  ceased,  and  Jules  felt  every  sound  a  pain 
While  that  sweet  cadence  in  his  ear  was  ringing ; 

So  gliding  from  the  arm  of  Lady  Jane, 
Which  rather  seem'd  to  have  the  whim  of  clinging, 

He  made  himself  a  literary  lane — 
Punching  and  shoving  every  kind  of  writer 
Till  he  got  out.     (He  might  have  been  politer.) 

XIV. 

Free  of  "  the  press,"  he  wander'd  through  the  rooms, 
Longing  for  solitude,  but  studying  faces ; 

And,  smitten  with  the  ugliness  of  Brougham's, 
He  mused  upon  the  cross  with  monkey  races — 

(Hieroglyphick'd  on  th'  Egyptian  tombs 

And  shown  in  France  with  very  striking  traces.) 

"  Rejected"  Smith's  he  thought  a  head  quite  glorious ; 

And  Hook,  all  button'd  up,  he  took  for  "  Boreas." 


(  302  ) 

xv. 

He  noted  Lady  Stepney's  pretty  hand, 

And  Barry  Cornwall's  sweet  and  serious  eye ; 

And  saw  Moore  get  down  from  his  chair  to  stand, 
While  a  most  royal  duke  went  bowing  by — 

Saw  Savage  Landor,  wanting  soap  and  sand — 
Saw  Lady  Chatterton  take  snuff  and  sigh — 

Saw  graceful  Bulwer  say  "  good-night,"  and  vanish — 

Heard  Crofton  Croker's  brogue,  and  thought  it  Spanish. 

XVI. 

He  saw  Smith  whispering  something  very  queer, 
And  Hayward  creep  behind  to  overhear  him ; 

Saw  Lockhart  whistling  in  a  lady's  ear, 

(Jules  thought  so,  till,  on  getting  very  near  him, 

The  error — not  the  mouth — became  quite  clear  ;) 
He  saw  "  the  Duke"  and  had  a  mind  to  cheer  him, 

And  fine  Jane  Porter  with  her  cross  and  feather, 

And  clever  Babbage,  with  his  face  of  leather. 

XVII. 

And  there  was  plump  and  saucy  Mrs.  Gore, 
And  calm,  old,  lily-white  Joanna  Baillie, 

And  frisky  Bowring,  London's  wisest  bore  ; 
And  there  was  "  devilish  handsome"  D'Israeli ; 

And  not  a  lion  of  all  these  did  roar ; 

But  laughing,  flirting,  gossiping  so  gaily, — 

Poor  Jules  began  to  think  'twas  only  mockery 

To  talk  of  "  porcelain" — 'twas  a  world  of  crockery. 


(  303  ) 

XVIII. 

JTis  half  a  pity  authors  should  be  seen  ! 

Jules  thought  so,  and  I  think  so  too,  with  Jules. 
They'd  better  do  the  immortal  with  a  screen, 

And  show  but  mortal  in  a  world  of  fools ; 
Men  talk  of  "  taste"  for  thunder — but  they  mean 

Old  Vulcan's  apron  and  his  dirty  tools ; 
They  flock  all  wonder  to  the  Delphic  shade, 
To  know — just  how  the  oracle  is  made ! 

XIX. 

What  we  should  think  of  Bulwer's  works — without  him, 
His  wife,  his  coat,  his  curls  or  other  handle ; 

What  of  our  Cooper,  knowing  naught  about  him, 
Save  his  enchanted  quill  and  pilgrim's  sandal ; 

What  of  old  Lardner,  (gracious !  how  they  flout  him  !) 
Without  this  broad — (and  Heavy-)  side  of  scandal ; 

What  of  Will  Shakspeare  had  he  kept  a  "  Boz" 

Like  Johnson — would  be  curious  questions,  coz ! 

XX. 

Jove  is,  no  doubt,  a  gainer  by  his  cloud, 

(Which  ta'en  away,  might  cause  irreverent  laughter,) 
But,  out  of  sight,  he  thunders  ne'er  so  loud, 

And  no  one  asks  the  god  to  dinner  after ; 
And  "  Fame's  proud  temple,"  build  it  ne'er  so  proud, 

Finds  notoriety  a  useful  rafter. 
And  when  you've  been  abused  awhile,  you  learn 
All  blasts  blow  fair  for  you — that  How  astern! 


(  304  ) 

xxr. 

No  "pro"  without  its  "co?iy" — the  pro  is  fame, 
Pure,  cold,  unslander'd,  like  a  virgin's  frill ; 

The  con  is  beef  and  mutton,  sometimes  game, 
Madeira,  sherry,  claret,  what  you  will ; 

The  ladies'  (albums)  striving  for  your  name ; 
All,  (save  the  woodcock,)  yours  without  a  bill ; 

And  "in  the  gate,"  an  unbelieving  Jew, 

Your  "  Mordecai !" — Why,  clearly  con's  your  cue  f 

xxn. 

I've  "  reason'd"  myself  neatly  "  round  the  ring," 
While  Jules  came  round  to  Lady  Jane  once  more, 

And  supper  being  byt  a  heavy  thing, 

(To  lookers-on,)  I'll  show  him  to  the  door, 

And  his  first  night  to  a  conclusion  bring ; 
Not  (with  your  kind  permission,  sir)  before 

I  tell  you  what  her  Ladyship  said  to  him 

As  home  to  Brook-street  her  swift  horses  drew  him. 

xxin. 

"  You're  comfortably  lodged,  I  trust,"  she  said : 
"  And  Mrs.  Mivart — is  she  like  a  mother  ? 

Have  you  musquito  curtains  to  your  bed  ? 

Do  you  sleep  well  without  your  little  brother? 

What  do  you  eat  for  breakfast — baker's  bread  ? 

I'll  send  you  some  home-made,  if  you  would  rather. 

What  do  you  do  to-morrow  ? — say  at  five, 

Or  four — say  four — I  call  for  you  to  drive  ? 


(  305  ) 

XXIV. 

"  There's  the  New  Garden,  and  the  Coliseum — 
Perhaps  you  don't  care  much  for  Panoramas  ? 

But  there's  an  armadillo — you  must  see  him ! 
And  those  big-eyed  giraffes  and  heavenly  lamas ! 

And — are  you  fond  of  music  ? — the  Te  Deum 
Is  beautifully  play'd  by  Lascaramhas, 

At  the  new  Spanish  chapel.     This  damp  air  ! 

And  you've  no  hat  on  ! — let  me  feel  your  hair ! 

xxv. 

"  Poor  boy !" — but  Jules's  head  was  on  her  breast, 
Rock'd  like  a  nautilus  in  calm  mid  ocean  ; 

And  while  its  curls  within  her  hands  she  press'd, 
The  Lady  Jane  experienced  some  emotion  : 

For,  did  he  sleep  ?  or  wish  to  be  caress'd  ? 

What  meant  the  child  ? — she'd  not  the  slightest  notion  ! 

Arrived  at  home,  he  rose,  without  a  shake — 

Trembling  and  slightly  flush'd — but  wide  awake. 

XXVI. 

Loose  rein !  put  spur !  and  follow,  gentle  reader ! 

For  I  must  take  a  flying  leap  in  rhyme ; 
And  be  to  you  both  Jupiter  and  leader, 

Annihilating  space,  (we  all  kill  time,) 
And  overtaking  Jules  in  Rome,  where  he'd  a 

Delight  or  two,  besides  the  pleasant  clime. 
The  Lady  Jane  and  he,  (I  scorn  your  cavils — 
The  Earl  was  with  them,  sir !)  were  on  their  travels. 


(306) 

XXVII. 

You  know,  perhaps,  the  winds  are  no  narcotic, 

As  swallow'd  'twixt  the  Thames  and  Frith  of  Forth ; 

And  Jules  had  proved  a  rather  frail  exotic — 
Too  delicate  to  winter  so  far  north  ; 

The  Earl  was  breaking,  and  half  idiotic, 
And  Lady  Jane's  condition  little  worth  ; 

So,  through  celestial  Paris,  (speaking  victual-ly,) 

They  sought  the  sunnier  clime  of  ill-fed  Italy. 

xxvni. 

Oh  Italy  ! — but  no !— I'll  tell  its  faults  ! 

It  has  them,  though  the  blood  so  "  nimbly  capers" 
Beneath  those  morning  heavens  and  starry  vaults, 

That  we  forget  big  rooms  and  little  tapers — 
Forget  how  drowsily  the  Romans  waltz — 

Forget  they've  neither  shops  nor  morning  papers — 
Forget  how  dully  sits,  'mid  ancient  glory, 
This  rich  man's  heaven — this  poor  man's  purgatory ! 

XXIX. 

Fashion  the  world  as  one  bad  man  would  have  it,  he 
Would  silence  Harry's  tongue,  and  Tom's,  and  Dick's ; 

And  doubtless  it  is  pleasing  to  depravity 

To  know  a  land  where  people  are  but  sticks — 

Where  you've  no  need  of  fair  words,  flattery,  suavity, 
But  spend  your  money,  if  you  like,  with  kicks — 

Where  they  pass  by  their  own  proud,  poor  nobility, 

To  welcome  golden  "  Snooks"  with  base  servility. 


(307) 

XXX. 

Jules  was  not  in  the  poor  man's  category — 
So  Rome's  condition  never  spoilt  his  supper. 

The  deuse  (for  him)  might  take  the  Curtian  glory 
Of  riding  with  a  nation  on  his  crupper. 

He  lived  upon  a  Marquis's  first  story — 
The  venerable  Marquis  in  the  upper — 

And  found  it  pass'd  the  time,  (and  so  would  you,) 

To  do  some  things  at  Rome  that  Romans  do. 

XXXI. 

The  Marquis  upon  whom  he  chanced  *to  quarter, 
(He  took  his  lodgings  separate  from  the  Earl,) 

The  Marquis  had  a  friend,  who  had  a  daughter — 
The  friend  a  noble  like  himself,  the  girl 

A  diamond  of  the  very  purest  water  ; 
(Or  purest  milk,  if  you  prefer  a  pearl ;) 

And  these  two  friends,  tho'  poor,  were  hand  and  glove, 

And  of  a  pride  their  fortunes  much  above. 

XXXII. 

The  Marquis  had  not  much  besides  his  palace, 
The  Count,  beyond  his  daughter,  simply  naught ; 

And,  one  day,  died  this  very  Count  Pascalis, 
Leaving  his  friend  his  daughter,  as  he  ought ; 

And,  though  the  Fates  had  done  the  thing  in  malice, 
The  old  man  took  her,  without  second  thought, 

And  married  her.     "  She's  freer  thus,"  he  said, 

"And  will  be  young  to  marry  when  I'm  dead." 


(308) 

XXXIII. 

Meantime,  she  had  a  title,  house,  and  carriage, 

And,  far  from  wearing  chains,  had  newly  burst  'em — 

For,  as  of  course  you  know,  before  their  marriage 
Girls  are  sad  prisoners  by  Italian  custom — 

Not  meaning  their  discretion  to  disparage, 

But  just  because  they're  sure  they  couldn't  trust  'em. 

When  wedded,  they  are  free  enough — moreover 

The  marriage  contract  specifies  one  lover. 

xxxiv. 

Not  that  the  Marchioness  had  one — no,  no ! 

Nor  wanted  one.     It  is  not  my  intention 
To  hint  it  in  this  tale.     Jules  lodged  below — 

But  his  vicinity's  not  my  invention ; 
And,  if  it  seems  to  you  more  apropos 

Than  I  have  thought  it  worth  my  while  to  mention, 
Why,  you  think  as  the  world  did — verbum  sat — 
But  still  it  needn't  be  so — for  all  that. 

xxxv. 

'Most  any  female  neighbor,  up  a  stair, 

Occasions  thought  in  him  who  lodges  under ; 

And  Jules,  by  accident,  had  walk'd  in  where 
(A  "flight  too  high"  's  a  very  common  blunder.) 

He  saw  a  lady  whom  he  thought  as  fair 

As  "  from  her  shell  rose"  Mrs.  Smith  of  Thunder. 

Though  Venus,  I  would  say  were  Vulcan  by, 

Was  no  more  like  the  Marchioness  than  I. 


(  309  ) 

XXXVI. 

For  this  grave  sin  there  needed  much  remission  ; 

And  t'  assure  it,  oft  the  offender  went. 
The  Marquis  had  a  very  famous  Titian, 

And  Jules  so  often  came  to  pay  his  rent, 
The  old  man  recommended  a  physician, 

Thinking  his  intellects  a  little  bent, 
And,  pitying,  he  thought  and  talk'd  about  him, 
Till,  finally,  he  couldn't  live  without  him, 

XXXVII. 

And,  much  to  the  neglect  of  Lady  Jane, 

Jules  paid  him  back  his  love  ;  and  there,  all  day, 

The  fair  young  Marchioness,  with  fickle  brain, 

Tried  him  with  changeful  mood,  now  coy,  now  gay 

And  the  old  man  lived  o'er  his  youth  again, 
Seeing  those  grown-up  children  at  their  play — 

His  wife  sixteen,  Jules  looking  scarcely  more, 

'Twas  frolic  infancy  to  eighty-four. 

XXXVIII. 

There  seems  less  mystery  in  matrimony, 
With  people  living  nearer  the  equator ; 

And  early,  like  the  most  familiar  crony, 
Unheralded  by  butler,  groom,  or  waiter, 

Jules  join'd  the  Marquis  at  his  macaroni, — 
The  Marchioness  at  toast  and  coffee  later ; 

And  if  his  heart  throbb'd  wild  sometimes,  he  hid  it ; 

And  if  her  dress  required  "  doing" — did  it. 


(310) 

XXXIX. 

Now,  though  the  Marchioness  in  church  did  faint  once, 
And,  as  Jules  bore  her  out,  they  didn't  group  ill ; 

And  though  the  spouses  (as  a  pair)  were  quaint  ones — 
She  scarce  a  woman,  and  his  age  octuple — 

'Twas  odd,  extremely  odd,  of  their  acquaintance, 
To  call  Jules  lover  with  so  little  scruple  ! 

He'd  a  caressing  way — but  la  !  you  know  it's 

A  sort  of  manner  natural  to  poets ! 

XL. 

God  made  them  prodigal  in  their  bestowing ; 

And,  if  their  smiles  were  riches,  few  were  poor ! 
They  turn  to  all  the  sunshine  that  is  going — 

Swoop  merrily  at  all  that  shows  a  lure — 
Their  love  at  heart  and  lips  is  overflowing — 

Their  motto,  "  Trust  the  future — now  is  sure  !" 
Their  natural  pulse  is  high  intoxication — 
(Sober'd  by  debt  and  mortal  botheration.) 

XLI. 

Of  such  men's  pain  and  pleasure,  hope  and  passion, 
The  symptoms  are  not  read  by  "  those  who  run  •" 

And  'tis  a  pity  it  were  not  the  fashion 

To  count  them  but  as  children  of  the  sun — 

Not  to  be  baited  like  the  "  bulls  of  Bashan," 
Nor  liable,  like  clods,  for  "  one  pound  one" — 

But  reverenced — as  Indians  rev'rence  fools — 

Inspired,  tho'  God  knows  how.     Well — such  was  Jules. 


(311) 

XLII. 

The  Marquis  thought  him  sunshine  at  the  window — 
The  window  of  his  heart — and  let  him  in ! 

The  Marchioness  loved  sunshine  like  a  Hindoo, 
And  she  thought  loving  him  could  be  no  sin ; 

And  as  she  loved  not  yet  as  those  who  sin  do, 
'Twas  very  well — was't  not  ?     Stick  there  a  pin ! 

It  strikes  me  that  so  far — to  this  last  stanza — 

The  hero  seems  a  well-disposed  young  man,  sir ! 

XLIII. 

I  have  not  bored  you  much  with  his  "  abilities," 
Though  I  set  out  to  treat  you  to  a  poet, 

The  first  course  commonly  is  "  puerilities" — 
(A  soup  well  pepper'd — all  the  critics  know  it !) 

Brought  in  quite  hot.     (The  simple  way  to  chill  it  is, 
For  "  spoons"  to  stir,  and  puffy  lips  to  blow  it.) 

Then,  poet  stuff'd,  and  by  his  kidney  roasted, 

And  last  (with  "  lagrima")  "the  devil"  toasted. 

XLIV. 

High-scream  between  the  devil  and  the  roast, 

But  no  Sham-pain  / Hold  there  !  the  fit  is  o'er. 

Olsta  prindpiis — one  pun  breeds  a  host — 
(Alarmingly  prolific  for  a  bore  !) 

But  he  who  never  sins  can  little  boast 

Compared  to  him  who  goes  and  sins  no  more ! 

The  "sinful  Mary"  walks  more  white  in  heaven 

Than  some  who  never  "  sinn'd  and  were  forgiven  !" 


(312) 

XLV. 

Jules  had  objections  very  strong  to  playing 

His  character  of  poet — therefore  I 
Have  rather  dropp'd  that  thread,  as  I  was  saying. 

But  though  he'd  neither  phrensy  in  his  eye, 
Nor  much  of  outer  mark  the  bard  betraying — 

(A  thing  he  piqued  himself  on,  by  the  by — ) 
His  conversation  frequently  arose 
To  what  was  thought  a  goodly  flight  for  prose. 

XLVI. 

His  lean  ideal  was  to  sink  the  attic, 

(Though  not  by  birth,  nor  taste,  "  the  salt  above" — ) 
To  pitilessly  cut  the  air  erratic 

Which  ladies,  fond  of  authors,  so  much  love, 
And  be,  in  style,  calm,  cold,  aristocratic — 

Serene  in  faultless  boots  and  primrose  glove. 
But  th'  exclusive's  made  of  starch,  not  honey  ! 
And  Jules  was  cordial,  joyous,  frank,  and  funny. 

XLVII. 

This  was  one  secret  of  his  popularity, 

Men  hate  a  manner  colder  than  their  own, 

And  ladies — bless  their  hearts !  love  chaste  hilarity 
Better  than  sentiment — if  truth  were  known ! 

And  Jules  had  one  more  slight  peculiarity — 
He'd  little  "  approbativeness" — or  none — 

And  what  the  critics  said  concern'd  him  little — 

Provided  it  touch'd  not  his  drink  and  victual. 


(313) 

XLVIII. 

Critics,  I  say — of  course  he  was  in  print — 

"  Poems,"  of  course — of  course  "  anonymous" — 

Of  course  he  found  a  publisher  by  dint 
Of  search  most  diligent,  and  far  more  fuss 

Than  chemists  make  in  melting  you  a  flint. 
Since  that  experiment  he  reckons  plus 

Better  manure  than  minus  for  his  bays — 

In  short,  seeks  immortality — "  that  pays." 

XLIX. 

He  writes  in  prose — the  public  like  it  better. 

Well — let  the  public  !     You  may  take  a  poet, 
And  he  shall  write  his  grandmother  a  letter, 

And,  if  he's  any  thing  but  rhyme — he'll  show  it. 
Prose  may  be  poetry  without  its  fetter, 

And  be  it  pun  or  pathos,  high  or  low  wit, 
The  thread  will  show  its  gold,  however  twisted — 
(I  wish  the  public  flatter'd  me  that  this  did  !) 

L. 

No  doubt  there's  pleasant  stuff  that  ill  unravels. 

I  fancy  most  of  Moore's  would  read  so-so, 
Done  into  prose  of  pious  Mr.  Flavel's — 

(That  is  my  Sunday  reading — so  I  know,) 
Yet  there's  Childe  Harold — excellent  good  travels — 

And  what  could  spoil  sweet  Robinson  Crusoe  ! 
But  though  a  clever  verse-r  makes  a  prose-r, 
About  the  vice-versa,  I  don't  know,  sir ! 


(314) 

LI. 

Verser's  a  better  word  than  versifier, 
(Unless  'tis  verse  on  fire,  you  mean  to  say,) 

And  I've  long  thought  there's  something  to  desire 
In  poet's  nomenclature,  by  the  way. 

It  sounds  but  queer  to  laud  "  the  well-known  lyre" — 
Call  a  dog  "  poet !"  he  will  run  away — 

And  "  songster,"  "  rhymester,"  "  bard,"  and  "  poetaster," 

Are  customers  they're  shy  of  at  the  Astor. 

LII. 

A  "  scribbler's"  is  a  skittish  reputation, 

And  weighs  a  man  down  like  a  hod  of  mortar. 

Commend  a  suitor's  wit,  imagination — 

The  merchant  may  think  of  him  for  his  daughter ; 

But  say  that  "  he  writes  poetry" n  ! 

Her  "  Pa"  would  rather  throw  her  in  the  water  ! 

And  yet  when  poets  wed,  as  facts  will  prove, 

Their  bills  stand  all  at  pa,  they  much  above  ! 

LIII. 

Jules  had  a  hundred  minds  to  cut  the  muses ; 

And  sometimes  did,  "  forever  !" — (for  a  week  !) 
He  found  for  time  so  many  other  uses. 

His  superfluity  was  his  'physique  ; 
And  exercise,  if  violent,  induces 

Blood  to  the  head  and  flush  upon  the  cheek  ; 
And,  (though  details  are  neither  here  nor  there,) 
Makes  a  man  sit  uneasy  on  his  chair ; 


(315) 

LIV. 

Particularly  that  of  breaking  horses. 

The  rate  of  circulation  in  the  blood, 
Best  suited  to  the  meditative  forces, 

Is  quite  as  far  from  mercury  as  mud — 
That  of  the  starry,  not  the  racing-courses. 

No  man  can  trim  his  style  'mid  fire  and  flood, 
Nor  in  a  passion,  nor  just  after  marriage  ; 
And,  as  to  Caesar's  writing  in  his  carriage, 

LV. 

Credat  Judseus  !     Thought  is  free  and  easy  ,- 
But  language,  unless  wrought  with  labor  lima, 

Is  not  the  kind  of  thing,  sir,  that  would  please  ye  ! 
The  bee  makes  honey,  but  his  toil  is  ihymy, 

And  nothing  is  well  done  until  it  tease  ye  ; 

(Tho'  if  there's  one  who  would  'twere  not  so,  I'm  he !) 

Now  Jules,  I  say,  found  out  that  filly-breaking, 

Though  monstrous  fun,  was  not  a  poet's  making. 

LVI. 

True — some  drink  up  to  composition's  glow  ; 

Some  talk  up  to  it — vide  Neckar's  daughter! 
But  when  the  temp'rature's  a  fourth  too  low, 

Of  course  you  make  up  the  deficient  quarter ! 
Like  Byron's  atmosphere,  which,  chemists  know, 

Required  hydrogen — (more  gin  and  water.) 
And  Jules's  sanguine  humor  was  too  high, 
So,  of  the  bottle  he  had  need  be  shy  ! 


(316) 

LVII. 

And  of  society,  which  made  him  thin 

With  fret  and  fever,  and  of  sunny  sky — 

Father  of  idleness,  the  poet's  sin  ! 

(John  Bull  should  be  industrious,  by  the  by, 

If  clouds  without  concentrate  thought  within,) 

In  short,  the  lad  could  fag — (I  mean  soar  high) — 

Only  by  habits,  which  (if  Heaven  let  her  choose) 

His  mother  would  bequeath  as  Christian  virtues ! 

LVIII. 

Now  men  have  oft  been  liken'd  unto  streams ; 

(And,  truly,  both  are  prone  to  run  down  hill, 
And  seldom  brawl  when  dry,  or  so  it  seems  !) 

And  Jules,  when  he  had  brooded,  long  and  still, 
At  the  dim  fountain  of  the  poet's  dreams, 

Felt  suddenly  his  veins  with  phrensy  fill ; 
And,  urged,  as  by  the  torrent's  headlong  force, 
Ruthlessly  rode — if  he  could  find  a  horse. 

LIX. 

Yes,  sir — he  had  his  freshets  like  a  river, 
And  horses  were  his  passion — so  he  rode, 

When  he  his  prison'd  spirits  would  deliver, 

As  if  he  fled  from — some  man  whom  he  owed — 

And  glorious,  to  him,  the  bounding  quiver 
Of  the  young  steed  in  terror  first  bestrode  I 

Thrilling  as  inspiration  the  delay — 

The  arrowy  spring — the  fiery  flight  away  ! 


(317) 

LX. 

Such  riding  galls  the  Muses,  (though  we  know 
Old  Pegasus's  build  is  short  and  stocky,) 

But  I'd  a  mind  by  these  details  to  show 

What  Jules  might  turn  out,  were  the  Muses  baulky. 

This  hint  to  his  biographer  I  throw — 

In  Jules,  the  bard,  was  spoil'd  a  famous  jockey ! 

Though  not  at  all  to  imitate  Apollo  ! 

Horse  him  as  well,  he'd  beat  that  dabster  hollow  ! 

LXI. 

'Tis  one  of  the  proprieties  of  story 

To  mark  the  change  in  heroes,  stage  by  stage  ; 
And  therefore  I  have  tried  to  lay  before  ye 

The  qualities  of  Jules's  second  age. 
It  should  wind  up  with  some  memento  mori — 

But  we'll  defer  that  till  we  draw  the  sage. 
The  moral's  the  last  thing,  (I  say  with  pain,) 
And  now  let's  turn  awhile  to  Lady  Jane. 

LXII. 

The  Earl,  I've  said,  was  in  his  idiocy, 

And  Lady  Jane  not  well.     They  therefore  hired 

The  summer  palace  of  Rospigliosi, 
To  get  the  sun  as  well  as  be  retired. 

You  shouldn't  fail,  I  think,  this  spot  to  go  see — 
That's  if  you  care  to  have  your  fancy  fired — 

It's  out  of  Rome — it  strikes  me  on  a  steep  hill — 

A  sort  of  place  to  go  to  with  nice  people. 


(318) 

LXIII. 

It  looks  affectionate,  with  all  its  splendor — 

As  loveable  as  ever  look'd  a  nest ; 
A  palace,  I  protest,  that  makes  you  tender, 

And  long  for  fol  de  rol,  and  all  the  rest. 

Guido's  Aurora's  there — you  couldn't  mend  her ; 

And  Samson,  by  Caracci — not  his  best ; 
But  pictures,  I  can  talk  of  to  the  million — 
To  you,  I'll  just  describe  one  small  pavilion. 

LXIV. 

It's  in  the  garden  just  below  the  palace ; 

I  think  upon  the  second  terrace — no — 
The  first — yes,  'tis  the  first — the  orange  alleys 

Lead  from  the  first  flight  down — precisely  so ! 
Well — half-way  is  a  fountain,  where,  with  malice 

In  all  his  looks,  a  Cupid — 'hem !  you  know 
You  needn't  notice  that — you  hurry  by, 
And  lo  !  a  fairy  structure  fills  your  eye. 

LXV. 

A  crescent  colonnade  folds  in  the  sun, 

To  keep  it  for  the  wooing  South  wind  only — 

A  thing  I  wonder  is  not  oftener  done, 

(The  crescent,  not  the  wooing — that's  my  own  lie,) 

For  there  are  months,  and  January's  one, 

When  winds  are  chill,  and  life  in-doors  gets  lonely, 

And  one  quite  longs,  if  wind  would  keep  away, 

To  sing  i'  the  sunshine,  like  old  King  Rene. 


(319) 

LXVI. 

The  columns  are  of  marble,  white  as  light : 
The  structure  low,  yet  airy,  and  the  floor 

A  tesselated  pavement,  curious  quite, — 
Of  the  same  fashion  in  and  out  of  door. 

The  Lady  Jane,  who  kept  not  warm  by  sight, 
Had  carpeted  this  pavement  snugly  o'er, 

And  introduced  a  stove,  (an  open  Rumford) — 

So  the  pavilion  had  an  air  of  comfort. 

LXVII. 

"  The  frescoes  on  the  ceiling  really  breathe," 

The  guide-books  say.     Of  course  they  really  see  : 

And,  as  I  tell  you  what  went  on  beneath, 
Of  course  those  naked  goddesses  told  me. 

They  saw  two  rows  of  dazzling  English  teeth, 

Employ 'd,  each  morn,  on  "  English  toast  and  tea  ;" 

And  once,  when  Jules  came  in,  they  strain'd  their  eyes, 

But  didn't  see  the  teeth,  to  their  surprise. 

LXVIII. 

The  Lady  Jane  smiled  not.     Her  lashes  hung 
Low  to  the  soft  eye,  and  so  still  they  lay, 

Jules  knew  a  tear  was  hid  their  threads  among, 
And  that  she  fear'd  'twould  gush  and  steal  away. 

The  kindly  greeting  trembled  on  her  tongue, 

The  hand's  faint  pressure  chill'd  his  touch  like  clay, 

And  Jules  with  wonder  felt  the  world  all  changing, 

With  but  the  cloud  of  one  fond  heart's  estranging. 


(  320  ) 

LXIX. 

Oh  it  is  darkness  to  lose  love  ! — howe'er 

We  little  prize  the  fond  heart — fond  no  more  ! 

The  bird,  dark-wing'd  on  earth,  looks  white  in  air ! 
Unrecognised  are  angels,  till  they  soar ! 

And  few  so  rich  they  may  not  well  beware 
Of  lightly  losing  the  heart's  golden  ore  ! 

Yet — hast  thou  love  too  poor  for  thy  possessing  ? — 

Loose  it,  like  friends  to  death,  with  kiss  and  blessing ! 

LXX. 

You're  naturally  surprised,  that  Lady  Jane 

Loved  Mr.  Jules.     (He's  Mr.  now — not  Master  /) 

The  fact's  abruptly  introduced,  it's  plain  ; 
And  possibly  I  should  have  made  it  last  a 

Whole  Canto,  more  or  less — but  I'll  explain. 
Lumping  the  sentiment  one  gets  on  faster  ! 

Though  it's  in  narrative  an  art  quite  subtle, 

To  work  all  even,  like  a  weaver's  shuttle. 

LXXI. 

Good  "  characters"  in  tales  are  "  well  brought  up" — 
(Though,  by  this  rule,  my  Countess  Pasibleu 

Is  a  bad  character — yet,  just  to  sup, 

I  much  prefer  her  house  to  a  church  pew — ) 

But,  pouring  verse  for  readers,  cup  by  cup, — 
So  much  a  week, — what  is  a  man  to  do  ? 

"  'Tis  wish'd  that  if  a  story  you  begin,  you'd 

Make  separate  scenes  of  each  '  to  be  continued.' ''' 


(321) 

LXXII. 

So  writes  plain  "  Jonathan,"  who  tills  my  brains 

With  view  to  crop — (the  seed  being  ready  money — ) 

And  if  the  "  small-lot  system"  bring  him  gains, 
He  has  a  right  to  fence  off  grave  from  funny — 

Working  me  up,  as  'twere,  in  window-panes, 

And,  I  must  own,  where  one  has  room  to  run,  he 

Is  apt,  as  Cooper  does,  to  spread  it  thin, 

So  now  I'll  go  to  lumping  it  again ! 

LXXIII. 

"  Love  grows,  by  what"  it  gives  to  feed  another, 
And  not  by  what  "  it  feeds  on."     'Tis  divine, 

If  any  thing's  divine  besides  the  mother 

Whose  breast,  self-blessing,  is  its  holy  sign. 

Much  better  than  a  sister  loves  a  brother 

The  Lady  Jane  loved  Jules,  and  "  line  by  line, 

Precept  by  precept,"  furnish'd  him  advice  ; 

Also  much  other  stuff  he  thought  more  nice. 

LXXIV. 

She  got  him  into  sundry  pleasant  clubs, 

By  pains  that  women  can  take,  though  but  few  will  ! 
She  made  most  of  him  when  he  got  most  rubs ; 

And  once,  in  an  inevitable  duel, 
She  folio  w'd  him  alone  to  Wormwood  Scrubs — 

But  not  to  hinder  !     Faith  !  she  was  a  jewel ! 
I  wish  the  star  all  manner  of  festivity 
That  shone  upon  her  Ladyship's  nativity ! 


(  322) 

LXXV. 

All  sorts  of  enviable  invitations, 

Tickets,  and  privileges,  got  she  him ; 
Gave  him  much  satin  waistcoat,  work'd  with  patience, 

(Becoming  to  a  youth  so  jimp  and  slim) — 
Cut  for  his  sake  some  prejudiced  relations, 

And  found  for  him  in  church  the  psalm  and  hymn ; 
Sent  to  his  "den"  some  things  not  found  in  Daniel's, 
And  kept  him  in  kid  gloves,  cologne,  and  flannels. 

LXXVI. 

To  set  him  down  upon  her  way  chez  ette, 
She  stay'd  unreasonably  late  at  parties ; 

To  introduce  him  to  a  waltzing  belle 
She  sometimes  made  a  cessio  dignitatis ; 

And  one  kind  office  more  that  I  must  tell — 

She  sent  her  maid,  (and  very  stern  your  heart  is 

If  charity  like  this  you  find  a  sin  in,) 

In  church-time,  privately,  to  air  his  linen. 

LXXVII. 

Was  Jules  ungrateful  ?     No  !     Was  he  obtuse  ? 

Did  he  believe  that  women's  hearts  were  flowing 
With  tenderness,  like  water  in  a  sluice, — 

Like  the  sun's  shining, — like  the  breeze's  blowing, — 
And  fancy  thanking  them  was  not  much  use  ? 

Had  he  the  luck  of  intimately  knowing 
Another  woman,  quite  as  kind,  and  nicer  ? 
Had  he  a  "  friend"  sub  rosa  ?     No,  sir  !     Fie,  sir ! 


(  323) 

LXXVIII. 

Then  why  neglect  her  1     Having  said  he  did, 
I  will  explain,  as  Brutus  did  his  stab, — 

(Though  by  my  neighbors  I'm  already  chid 
For  getting  on  so  very  like  a  crab) — 

Jules  didn't  call,  as  oft  as  he  was  bid, 
Because  in  Rome  he  didn't  keep  a  cab — 

A  fact  that  quite  explains  why  friendships,  marriages, 

And  other  ties  depend  on  keeping  carriages. 

LXXIX. 

Without  a  carriage  men  should  have  no  card, 
Nor  "  owe  a  call"  at  all — except  for  love. 

And  friends  who  need  that  you  the  "  lean  earth  lard" 
To  give  their  memories  a  pasteboard  shove, 

On  gentlemen  a-foot  bear  rather  hard  ! 

It's  paying  high  for  Broadway  balls,  by  Jove  ! 

To  walk  next  day  half  way  to  Massachusett 

And  leave  your  name — on  ladies  that  won't  use  it. 

LXXX. 

It  really  should  be  taught  in  infant  schools 
That  the  majority  means  men,  not  dollars  ; 

And,  therefore,  that,  to  let  the  rich  make  rules, 
Is  silly  in  "  poor  pretty  little  scholars." 

And  this  you  see  is  apropos  of  Jules, 

Who  call'd  as  frequently  as  richer  callers 

While  he'd  a  cab  ; — but  courtesy's  half  horse — 

A  secret  those  who  ride  keep  snug,  of  course. 


(324) 

LXXXI. 

I  say  while  he  was  Centaur,  (horse  and  man,) 
Jules  never  did  neglect  the  Lady  Jane ; 

And,  at  the  start,  it  was  my  settled  plan, 

(Though  I've  lost  sight  of  it,  I  see  with  pain,) 

To  show  how  moderate  attentions  can, 
If  once  she  love,  a  woman's  heart  retain. 

True  love  is  weak  and  humble,  though  so  brittle  ; 

And  asks,  'tis  wonderful  how  very  little  ! 

LXXXII. 

For  instance — Jules's  every  day  routine 

Was,  breakfast  at  his  lodgings,  rather  early ; 

A  short  walk  in  the  nearest  Park,  the  Green ; 
(Where,  if  address'd,  he  was  extremely  surly ;) 

Five  minutes  at  the  Club,  perhaps  fifteen ; 

Then  giving  his  fine  silk  moustache  a  curl,  he 

Stepp'd  in  his  cab  and  drove  to  Belgrave  Square, 

Where  he  walk'd  in  with  quite  a  household  air. 

LXXXIII. 

And  here  he  pass'd  an  hour — or  two,  or  three — 
Just  as  it  served  his  purpose,  or  his  whim ; 

And  sweeter  haunt  on  earth  could  scarcely  be 
Than  that  still  boudoir,  rose-lit,  scented,  dim — 

Its  mistress,  elsewhere  all  simplicity, 

Dress'd  ever  sumptuously  there — for  him  ! 

With  all  that  taste  could  mould,  or  gold  could  buy, 

Pampering  fondly  his  reluctant  eye. 


(325) 

LXXXIV. 

And  on  the  silken  cushions  at  her  feet 

He  daily  dream'd  these  morning  hours  away, 

Troubling  himself  but  little  to  be  sweet. 
Poets  are  fond  of  revery,  they  say, 

But  not  with  ladies  whom  they  rarely  meet. 
And,  if  you  love  one,  madam,  (as  you  may  !) 

And  wish  his  wings  to  pin  as  with  a  skewer, 

Be  careful  of  all  manner  of  toujours  ! 

LXXXV. 

"  Toujours  perdrix,"  snipe,  woodcock,  trout,  or  rabbit 

Offends  the  simplest  palate,  it  appears, 
And,  (if  a  secret,  I'm  disposed  to  blab  it,) 

It's  much  the  same  with  smiles,  sighs,  quarrels,  tears. 
The  fancy  mortally  abhors  a  habit ! 

(Not  that  which  Seraphina's  bust  inspheres  !) 
E'en  one-tuned  music-boxes  breed  satiety, 
Unless  you  keep  of  them  a  great  variety. 

LXXXVI. 

Daily  to  Jules  the  sun  rose  in  the  East, 

And  brought  new  milk  and  morning  paper  daily ; 

The  "  yield"  of  both  the  Editor  and  beast, 

Great  mysteries,  unsolved  by  Brown  or  Paley  ; 

But  Jules — not  plagued  about  it  in  the  least — 
Read  his  gazette,  and  drank  his  tea  quite  gaily ; 

And  Lady  Jane's  fond  love  and  cloudless  brow 

Grew  to  be  like  the  Editor  and  cow. 


(  326  ) 

LXXXVII. 

I  see  you  understand  it.     One  may  dash  on 
A  color  here — stroke  there — and  lo !  the  story ! 

And,  speaking  morally,  this  outline  fashion 
Befits  a  world  so  cramm'd  yet  transitory. 

I've  sketch'd  for  you  a  deep  and  tranquil  passion 
Kindled  while  nursing  up  a  bard  for  glory ; 

And,  having  whisk'd  you  for  that  end  to  London, 

Let's  back  to  Italy,  and  see  it  undone. 

LXXXVIII. 

Fair  were  the  frescoes  of  Rospigliosi — 
Bright  the  Italian  sunshine  on  the  wall — 

The  day  delicious  and  the  room  quite  cozy — 
And  yet  were  there  two  bosoms  full  of  gall ! 

So  lurks  the  thorn  in  paths  long  soft  and  rosy ! 
Jules  was  not  one  whom  trifles  could  appal, 

But  few  things  will  make  creep  the  lion's  mane 

Like  ladies  in  a  miff  who  wont  explain ! 

LXXXIX. 

Now  I  have  seen  a  hadji  and  a  cadi — 

Have  sojourn'd  among  strangers,  oft  and  long — 

Have  known  most  sorts  of  women,  fair  and  shady, 
And  mingled  in  most  kinds  of  mortal  throng — 

But,  in  my  life,  I  never  saw  a  lady 

Who  had,  the  least,  the  air  of  being  wrong ! 

The  fact  is,  there's  a  nameless  grace  in  evil 

We  never  caught — 'twas  she  who  saw  the  devil ! 


(327) 

xc. 

In  pedigree  of  sin  we're  mere  beginners — 
For  what  was  Adam  to  the  "  morning  star  ?" 

She  would  take  precedence — if  sins  were  dinners, 
And  hence  that  self-assured  "  de  haut  en  bas" 

So  unattainable  by  men,  as  sinners. 

Of  course,  she  plays  the  devil  in  a  fracas — 

Frowns  better,  looks  more  innocent,  talks  faster, 

And  argues  like  her  grandmother's  old  master  ! 

xci. 

And  in  proportion  as  the  angel  fades — 

As  love  departs — the  crest  of  woman  rises — 

Even  in  passion's  softer,  lighter  shades, 
With  aristocracy's  well-bred  disguises ; 

For,  with  no  tragic  fury,  no  tirades, 
A  lady  looks  a  man  into  a  crisis ! 

And,  to  'most  any  animal  carnivorous 

Before  a  belle  aggrieved,  the  Lord  deliver  us  ! 

XCII. 

Jules  had  one  thing  particular  to  say, 

The  morn  I  speak  of,  but,  in  fact,  was  there, 

With  twenty  times  the  mind  to  be  away. 
Uncomfortable  seem'd  the  stufFd  arm-chair 

In  which  the  Earl  would  sometimes  pass  the  day ; 
And  there  was  something  Roman  in  the  air ; 

For  every  effort  to  express  his  errand 

Ended  in  "  um  !" — as  'twere  a  Latin  gerund. 


(  328  ) 

XCIII. 

He  had  received  a  little  billet-doux 

The  night  before — as  plain  as  A  B  C — 

(I  mean,  it  would  appear  as  plain  to  you, 
Though  very  full  of  meaning,  you'll  agree) — 

Informing  him  that  by  advice  quite  new 
The  Earl  was  going  now  to  try  the  sea  ; 

And  begging  him  to  have  his  passport  vised 

For  Venice,  by  Bologna — if  he  pleased ! 

xciv. 

Smooth  as  a  melody  of  Mother  Goose's 

The  gentle  missive  elegantly  ran — 
A  sort  of  note  the  writer  don't  care  who  sees, 

For  you  may  pick  a  flaw  in't  if  you  can — 
But  yet  a  stern  experimentum  cruets, 

Quite  in  the  style  of  Metternich,  or  Van, — 
And  meant — without  more  flummery  or  fuss — 
Stay  with  your  Marchioness — or  come  with  us  ! 

xcv. 

Here  was  to  be  "  a  parting  such  as  wrings 

The  blood  from  out  young  hearts" — for  Jules  would  stay  ! 

The  bird  she  took  unfledged  had  got  its  wings, 
And,  though  its  cage  be  gold,  it  must  away  ! 

But  this,  and  similar  high-color'd  things, 
Refinement  makes  it  difficult  to  say  ; 

For,  higher  "high  life"  is,  (this  side  an  attic,) 

The  more  it  shrinks  from  all  that  looks  dramatic. 


(329) 

XCVI. 

Hence,  words  grow  cold  as  agony  grows  hot, 
'Twixt  those  who  see  in  ridicule  a  Hades ; 

And  though  the  truth  but  coldly  end  the  plot, 
(There  really  is  no  pathos  for  you,  ladies  !) 

Jules  cast  the  die  with  simply  "  I  think  not !" 

And  her  few  words  were  guarded  as  he  made  his 

For  rank  has  one  cold  law  of  Moloch's  making — 

Death,  before  outcry,  while  the  heart  is  breaking  ! 

xcvu. 
She  could  not  tell  that  boy  how  hot  the  tear 

That  seem'd  within  her  eyeball  to  have  died — 
She  could  not  tell  him  her  exalted  sphere 

Had  not  a  hope  his  boyish  love  beside : 
The  grave  of  anguish  is  a  human  ear — 

Hers  lay  unburied  in  a  pall  of  pride  ! 
And  life,  for  her,  thenceforth,  was  cold  and  lonely, 
With  her  heart  lock'd  on  that  dumb  sorrow  only  ! 

XCVIII. 

Calm,  in  her  "  pride  of  place,"  moves  Lady  Jane — 
Paler,  but  beautifully  pale,  and  cold — 

So  cold,  the  gazer  believes  joy  nor  pain 
Has  o'er  that  pulse  of  marble  ever  roll'd. 

She  loved  too  late  to  dream  of  love  again, 
And  rich,  fair,  noble,  and  alone,  grows  old ! 

A  star,  on  which  a  spirit  had  alighted 

Once,  in  all  time,  were  like  a  life  so  blighted  ! 


(  330) 

xcix. 

So,  from  the  poet's  woof  was  broke  a  thread 
Which  we  have  follow'd  in  its  rosy  weaving ! 

Yet  merrily,  still  on,  the  shuttle  sped. 

Jules  was  not  made  of  stuff  to  die  of  grieving ; 

But,  that  an  angel  from  his  path  had  fled, 
He  was  not  long  in  mournfully  believing. 

And  "  angel  watch  and  ward"  had  fled  with  her — 

For,  virtuously  loved,  'tis  hard  to  err ! 

c. 

Poets  are  moths,  (or  so  some  poet  sings, 

Or  so  some  pleasant  allegory  goes,) 
And  Jules  at  many  a  bright  light  burnt  his  wings. 

His  first  chaste  scorching  the  foregoing  shows ; 
But,  while  one  passion  best  in  metre  rings, 

Another  is  best  told  in  lucid  prose. 
As  to  the  Marchioness,  I've  half  a  plan,  sir ! 
To  limn  her  in  the  quaint  Spenserian  stanza. 

END. 


To  the 

And  now,  dear  reader!  as  a  brick  may  be 

A  sample  of  a  house — a  bit  of  glass 
Of  a  broad  mirror — it  has  seem'd  to  me 

These  fragments  for  a  tale  may  shift  to  pass. 
(I  am  a  poet  much  cut  up,  pardie  !) 

But  "  shorts"  is  poor  "  to  running  loose  to  grass." 


(331) 

Where  there's  a  meadow  to  range  freely  over, 
You  pick  to  please  you — timothy  or  clover. 

Without  the  slightest  hint  at  transmigration, 

I  wish  hereafter  we  may  meet  in  calf! 
That  you  may  read  me  with  some  variation — 

This  when  you're  moody — that  when  you  would  laugh. 
In  that  case,  I  may  swell  this  true  narration, 

And  blow  off  here  and  there  a  speech  of  chaff. 
I  trust  you  think,  that,  were  there  more  'twere  better,  or 
If  cetera  desunt,  decent  were  the  cetera ! 

P.  S.     I  really  had  forgotten  quite 

To  say  to  you,  from  Countess  Pasibleu — 

(Dying,  'tis  thought,  but  quite  too  ill  to  write) — 
Her  Ladyship's  best  compliments  to  you, 

And  she's  toujours  chez  elle  on  Friday  night, 
(Buckingham  Crescent,  May  Fair,  No.  2.) 

This,  (as  her  written  missive  would  have  said,) 

Always  in  case  her  Ladyship's  not  dead. 


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The   poems   of 


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